Faith, Part I: Hope
by Gabrielle Lawson
Summary: Doctor Bashir, marooned for over six months, is discovered by the Enterprise. Starfleet counted him dead. Section 31 made sure of that. Can he get his life back?
1. Chapter One

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith, Part I: Hope**

By Gabrielle Lawson

Disclaimer: Paramount and Viacom own all things Trek, including DS9, the main characters thereof, the _Defiant_, etc. I only borrow their characters and settings. The stories are mine. Do not copy without including this disclaimer and my name. Do not post without permission.

Author's Note: This story does reference other stories of mine. It can stand alone but it might leave you with questions. If you've read my other stories, those questions shouldn't come up. Those stories can be found here on , or on my web site, The Edge of the Frontier.

Acknowledgements: Thank you to my beta readers. Paula Stiles gave helpful medical advice, though I must say I never hear from her anymore. Jo Burgess debated and argued with me to help me work out where this story would go, and I thank her heartily for it. And Valerie, ever thankfulto you. I think you read just about everything I ever write. Also Victoria Meredith and Matthew Edward gave their comments and votes as well.

**Prologue**

Julian sat in the darkness that had become his home. He leaned his head back against the cold wet wall and touched the PADD again. He hated the voice, but was glad for it. He could only guess how long it had been since he'd heard any other voice.

"Welcome to your new home," Sloan said, and in Julian's mind, he could see the man smiling. "I can't recommend the accommodations, but you betrayed us. There's a replicator, if you can find it. It will only produce one thing. You'll just have to live with that. I'm sure you can find water if you try hard. You asked once, what would have happened if we didn't find you trustworthy. I admit, this is more creative than we usually get, but you get the general idea. You're an intelligent man, after all."

The PADD went silent, and Julian wished the walls around him would do the same. But like Sloan had said, so many times, he'd find water. It had taken him two days, by his estimate, to find the source of the echoing roar of the waterfall.

The replicator had been easier, and it produced the only light he saw. But that light had gone out weeks before when he replicated the last of his emergency field rations. Two months worth. As the last bar shimmered into shape, he'd lost the last of his meager light. In return, he'd hoped to gain his salvation. His hope had a name: Data.

In the first days, he had longed for light like he had once starved for food. He'd wake only to find wakefulness darker than sleep. He'd touch his eyes just to see that they were indeed open. He'd worried, at first, that Sloan had blinded him, but he'd bumped into the walls enough to know where he'd disappeared to.

The walls ran with water, slowly seeping, giving life to the rock. Conical towers grew up from the floor to stumble him when he tried to walk. Rounded points hit his head and shoulders and dropped water down onto his clothes. Water and calcium and the drops became hard deposits on his clothes.

In the weeks to follow he'd mapped out some of the cave in his mind, hoping to find an exit to the unknown planet beyond. But he never so much as found an upward slope. Except once, by following the water toward its source. But all he'd gotten was wet. The passage had become too narrow to even crawl through. It had taken days to dry. He shook and shivered from the cool air. He still felt damp. He always felt damp.

He'd wondered, at first, if there were animals in the cave, but he hadn't heard any sound except the replicator, Sloan's voice, and the constant roar of the water. He could feel them, though, when he dipped his hands in the water. He'd even caught one once. A crayfish. It had pinched him. There were little fish, too, which nibbled at his fingers or the ends of his hair that touched the surface of the water when he washed.

In those first days, weeks, months, he'd felt many things. Fear, anger, self-pity, loneliness, hopelessness. He'd gotten stuck on that last one. Hopelessness. What hope was there? His one puny life mattered little. Everything was being lost with or without him. The Dominion was still in the Alpha Quadrant, and the Federation was still becoming the Dominion. Well, maybe not the Dominion, but certainly less distinguishable. Besides freedom, what was being fought for out there? It used to be more than that. But even in his last months up there--in the light--he'd started to feel it dwindling. Even in himself.

Sloan had only confirmed it, put details to his vague ideas and nails in the coffin of his ideals. The bad guys were bad, but the good guys weren't good. There was no point.

And yet, in the days, weeks to follow, he'd found himself replicating rations and drinking the water. Why? Some pointless, innate will to survive perhaps? Partly so. To calm the rumbling in his stomach and the old memories of his nightmares? Partly that, too. To see the brief shimmer of light? That as well. Life, to put it simply. Faith may die, but life goes on.

**ChapterOne**

"It's here," Geordi called.

Riker followed the beam of light from La Forge's wrist beacon to where it shone on a small gray box. He stepped closer and looked over the engineer's shoulder. "That's not a transmitter," he observed. He had to speak up to be heard above the din of what he assumed was a waterfall somewhere in the cave. "It's a replicator." Portable. Starfleet issue.

"Yep," Geordi confirmed. "It _was_ a replicator. But now it's a transmitter. I'm picking up a signal, and it matches the one Data was getting. I'm also picking up a slight flux in the infrared around here. Someone's been here recently."

"Well," Riker said, "someone had to rewire the replicator. Let's find out who."

"I've got life signs," Doctor Crusher said. She stood near one of the tunnels. Her tricorder beeped enthusiastically. "Down here."

That said, they all filed down that tunnel. Well, almost all. "Data!" Riker yelled, and then regretted it. The sound echoed down in the cave. He tapped his comm badge. "Riker to Data. We've found the transmitter."

"And I have apparently found the refuse," Data's voice came back to him over the comm line. "One hundred and seventy-seven Starfleet emergency field ration wrappers."

"Then I'd say who ever it is has been here awhile," Riker replied. "Join us, Mr. Data."

"Yes, sir."

The line closed and Riker continued down the corridor with Geordi and the doctor. The din became a roar, and Riker was thankful for the beacon he had strapped to his wrist. The darkness, like the noise, threatened to engulf him. It was like a physical thing he could feel seeping through his uniform into his skin. One hundred seventy-seven, Data has said. One ration had enough nutrients for three days. That added up to a whole lot of days. Months of this darkness and the mind-numbing racket of the waterfall.

Doctor Crusher said something, but Riker was unable to make it out. "What?" he shouted. But he couldn't hear his own voice.

* * *

Szymon sat beside him. "Now it is you who is sick," he said. "But you were always sick."

"Injured," Bashir argued. "I was injured. I outlasted you."

"But I died under the stars. You have died many times, and never under the stars."

"Leave him alone, Szymon," Max scolded. He could speak English now. Bashir was glad for that. He was never able to have a real conversation before. Only when Henri had translated for them.

"Yes, leave him alone," the Frenchman joined in. "It's not his fault. When you are murdered you do not get to choose where you die."

"I was never dead," Bashir argued. "Not really."

"It's not fair, you know," Szymon said. "I stayed dead. We all did. None of us got up again."

"I'm sorry," Bashir told him, and he meant it. "I would have saved you if I could."

"You knew how," Piotr interjected quietly. He could speak English now, too, and it was the first time that Bashir could understand him.

"I knew how," Bashir admitted. "But I couldn't save you, not there. They wouldn't let me. Heiler wouldn't have let me."

"Starfleet wouldn't let you," Szymon added.

Bashir nodded. "No, they wouldn't let me."

"So we all go to the chimney," Piotr sighed.

* * *

They were past the water now, and Riker could hear a voice. Then he heard laughter. It was strange laughter, almost maniacal, but also wistful. "If I could find the damn chimney," the voice said, with a highly apparent British accent, "I would've crawled up it months ago." The laughter stopped. "It has been months, hasn't it?"

They rounded the corner, Riker in the lead. He swept his light across the room--He always thought it odd that caves had rooms, but what else was one to call them?--and almost instantly hit the speaker. The man cried out and cringed, covering his eyes. A hand clamped down on Riker's arm, pushing the light off the man and onto the floor.

"Don't point it at him," Crusher whispered. "He's been in the dark too long."

"Do you see it, Szymon?" the man asked. He paused as if waiting for an answer, but he didn't uncover his eyes. "Maybe Heiler opened the door. She does that sometimes. To let the air in."

"He's nuts," Riker whispered back to Crusher.

"_If_ he is," she scolded, "he probably has a good excuse." She pushed past him and walked toward the man. She kept her light low, on the ground. Riker could really only make out that the man was there. "Hello," she said quietly.

The man backed away from her, backing into the cave wall behind him. "I didn't do anything," he pleaded.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Crusher told him. "My name is--"

"Whaley," the man said. "Heiler, that Gestapo guy. And O'Brien. You were O'Brien once."

"Doctor Beverly Crusher, actually," she corrected him. "I'm here to help you." She opened her bag and pulled something out. "Let me cover your eyes so the light won't hurt."

Riker came up beside her and crouched down. "He is _insane_."

"I'm not insane," the man said, dropping his arm so that Crusher could cover his eyes. "I'm hallucinating. It happens sometimes, when things get really bad. I start seeing things. Well, not seeing. It's too dark for that. But I hear them. They're dead. That's how I know I'm hallucinating. They died a long time ago. But I hear them now because of the malnutrition."

Crusher was just getting out her tricorder to run a scan. "How do you know that?" Riker asked the man to keep him talking.

"He is a doctor."

Riker spun around, shining his light back toward the corner where they'd come in. "You know him, Data?"

"Data!" Riker spun around again. The man was standing. He nearly fell over, but he stood. "Where?" He held out a hand in Data's direction.

Data stepped forward and took the man's hand. "I am here, Doctor Bashir."

The man, Doctor Bashir--and Riker was sure that name was familiar--smiled. "I knew you'd come." Then he collapsed. Data caught him before he could fall.

* * *

Doctor Crusher was finishing up her scans when he entered. Picard looked toward the biobed where she stood. A man was lying there, in new coveralls. A mud covered uniform of some sort lay on the floor near the bed. The man was bearded and his hair was long and unkempt, reaching just past his collar. A bandage covered his eyes. "Who is he?" he asked Commander Riker who was standing to one side of the room.

"Doctor Julian Bashir, former CMO of Deep Space Nine." Riker answered.

"Former?"

"He was reported MIA more than six months ago. Dead, three months later."

"He doesn't look dead, Number One." The lights above the biobed showed the man to be very much alive. "How is he?"

"Malnutrition," Crusher replied, "just like he said. He'll be fine though, physically."

"And his eyes?" Picard didn't see any problem with the bandages, no red seeping from beneath them.

"Nothing," she said, replacing the instrument she was holding. "I'm going to run some tests anyway."

"He was in a cave," Riker supplied. "Looks like months. The light was too bright for him. He was hallucinating."

"You would, too," Crusher chided, "if you were starving and stranded alone thousands of feet below ground for months on end." Riker chuckled in response and then turned to leave.

Picard's brow furrowed as he thought about what months alone in a cave must have been like. "How did he end up there? That planet was uninhabited."

Data stepped forward then, holding out a PADD. "There is no evidence of a crash or any other debris. There were no entrances or exits large enough for a human to enter or exit the cave. He would have had to transport, as we did."

"But why?" Picard asked, reading the PADD. It had all the facts, but none of the reasons. It didn't make any sense that the man would strand himself. "He would have had to have a ship in order to transport. There are none on the long-range sensors. Did Deep Space Nine report any missing ships when they reported the doctor missing?"

Data took a moment to answer. Picard hardly noticed. A moment for Data was very short. "No, sir. There were no ships reported missing in the entire Bajoran Sector."

"Section 31."

"What?" Picard turned back to the biobed. The man was leaning up on his elbows.

"Section 31," he repeated. "You wanted to know how I ended up there. They put me there."

"Who is Section 31?" Data asked, stepping closer.

"Data, who are those people?" the man said, lowering his voice.

"I am sorry," Data replied, standing up straighter. "I should have introduced you. Doctor Julian Bashir, Captain Jean-Luc Picard and Doctor Beverly Crusher, Chief Medical Officer, USS Enterprise."

"Pleased to meet you," Bashir said. He sat up and offered his hand. "I was Chief Medical Officer of Deep Space Nine, but I dare say I've been replaced by now."

Crusher smiled and then turned away to continue working. But Picard was not a little taken aback by the man's--or rather, Bashir's--attitude. It wasn't what he would have expected from someone released from months underground. But what would he expect? Elation? Or something different, born out of distrust. Because someone had put him there. "Who is Section 31, Doctor?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation back to facts.

Bashir sighed. "A clandestine, extra-governmental organization that supposedly ferrets out threats to Federation security. To hear them tell it, they are the protectors of all the Federation holds dear. But you didn't ask them. You asked me. And I say they break every principle they claim to protect."

"And why would they strand you in the cave?" Picard pushed. He didn't know whether Bashir could be believed or not. He'd been hallucinating not more than an hour before. He could be insane, given the length of his isolation. But Picard found he was more worried that the man was telling the truth. "Did they consider you a threat?"

Bashir dropped his head slightly, so that, were his eyes not covered, he might have been staring at his hands. "To the Federation? No. To Section 31? Apparently."

"I'm sorry, Captain," Doctor Crusher stepped in. "You'll need to continue this conversation later. I think Doctor Bashir needs his rest. And I need to examine his eyes."

Picard and Data both turned to leave, but Bashir stopped them. "Data," he said, "would you stay?"

Data looked to Picard for permission, and Picard granted it with a nod. There was a level of dependence between the doctor and Data that Picard didn't quite understand. The signal they'd intercepted wasn't meant for anyone to find. It was meant for Data.

* * *

Doctor Crusher waited until the door closed behind the captain, and then started to remove the bandages. "Computer, lights off," she ordered, and the room became bathed in darkness. Not dark enough, though. Light from the stars let enough light in for shapes and dim shadows. And, of course, there were the instrument readouts. It would have to do. She unwrapped the last layer of bandage and already Bashir was cringing. She was ready though, and had the instrument before his eyes quickly. He relaxed. "Computer, scan optical nerves."

"Analysis complete," the computer intoned. "Visual acuity at above average levels."

"Above average?" Crusher whispered aloud. She remembered him now. Starfleet Medical was in a tizzy a while back about a decorated doctor who was revealed to be genetically enhanced. His name was Julian Bashir. Above average, indeed.

"That means I'm not blind," Bashir stated, not mentioning the enhancements.

Crusher decided to let it go for now. "Not in any real sense of the word," she corrected. "Let's call it external blindness. You're extremely sensitive to light. But I expected that and have prepared for it. We have guest quarters prepared for you. I'm glad you asked Mr. Data to stay. Perhaps he could escort you. The lights will be down in the corridor and in your quarters. I've programmed the computer to bring them up gradually beginning each morning."

* * *

Bashir thanked the doctor and then braced himself for the pain he'd feel when she took the instrument away. He'd heard her, of course, turn the lights out, but he could still feel it, like little pinpricks. He closed his eyes. That was enough in the darkened sickbay. It wouldn't work for the corridor. A strong hand touched his arm, and Bashir knew that it was Data. The android helped him off the biobed he'd been sitting on. He still felt weak, but not as much so. He was on the mend.

He was sure the light from the corridor would blind him even through his eyelids, but the door opened and nothing happened. Doctor Crusher really had prepared for this. He was thankful. Away from the viewports, he could even open his eyes to the comfort of the darkness he'd grown accustomed to. Data, of course, would know the way, regardless of light.

"Data," Bashir asked, breaking the silence in the corridor, "how long was I gone?"

"You were reported missing six months, two weeks, and five days ago." He stopped before reporting the minutes, though Bashir guessed he could have done it. Given a stardate, he could have done it himself. But he didn't even know what today was.

Bashir stopped, forcing the android to stop with him. "And then what?"

"I do not understand," Data said, and Bashir got the distinct feeling that Data was trying to avoid answering.

"I was reported missing and then what? Am I still missing? What did Starfleet have to say when you told them you'd found me?"

"I do not know what Starfleet Command will say," Data replied. He started walking again, and, given that he was much stronger than Bashir on a good day, it forced Bashir to continue down the corridor with him. "To my knowledge, they have not yet been notified." They stopped again and Bashir heard doors opening. His quarters? "Deck Ten," Data said, and Bashir realized it was a turbolift.

"You still didn't answer, Data," Bashir said, and wondered why an android--even one who could dream--would dance around a question so much. "Am I still missing?"

Data's voice actually dropped. "You are dead." The turbolift stopped and Data led Bashir out.

_Again?_ Bashir thought. _What will my parents think?_ He thought of the story of the boy who cried "wolf." "Then I suppose they'll be surprised," he replied evenly.

"Yes," Data responded, "I think they will. These are your quarters."

A door opened in front of them and, once they were through, closed behind them again. There was still only darkness, now even darker, very much like the cave. But more comfortable. The room he was in was warm and dry. It was quiet, with no roaring waterfall, but alive with little sounds that most people probably wouldn't notice.

"I can stay, if you require someone to talk to," Data offered, "or to show you around."

Bashir shook his head--and wondered if the android could see that. "It's alright, Data," he told him. "You can go back to your duties. I'll find my way around. I'm used to being alone." He heard the door open again. "But you're welcome to visit. I'm betting a lot has happened since we last had the chance to talk."

"Quite a lot," Data replied quietly.

The door closed and Bashir was alone again. _Now what?_ he wondered. He hadn't really prepared for this day because he hadn't quite convinced himself it would happen. He was free. He thought perhaps he should feel happy, but happiness didn't come. It was no different. A damp cave or guest quarters on the USS Enterprise. He was still a prisoner. Only now, he was the only one who could see it.

* * *

It wasn't long before he had a visitor. The door chimed. He'd almost forgotten what kind of sound a Starfleet starship's door chimes had. He waited for it to sound again just so he could listen. This time there was a voice, too. "Doctor Bashir? It's Counselor Troi. May I please come in?"

Bashir sighed. A counselor. Still, he had expected it. If he had just rescued someone from six months alone in a cave, he would have prescribed counseling, too. So now he was the patient. It would probably be awhile before he was allowed to be a doctor again. Death tended to negate one's license to practice, after all. "Yes," he answered, unable to dredge up any show of enthusiasm. "Come in."

As the door opened, he saw the light from the corridor, so he turned his head away and covered his eyes. He listened for the door to close before he uncovered and turned toward her. "It certainly is dark," she said. She had a bit of an accent, and he remembered another Troi.

"Yep," Bashir answered. "How has your mother been? I hope she wasn't on Betazed when. . . ." He didn't bother finishing the sentence.

"She was," the counselor replied and Bashir could hear the sadness in her voice. "But I'm sure she's giving them hell anyway."

Bashir smiled, remembering the annoyance with which the ambassador was generally greeted at the station. Not always though. "I'm sorry." He paused for a moment and then welcomed her in. "I'd offer you a seat, but I haven't really explored the place yet. I'm sure there's a couch in here somewhere."

"Yes," she replied, "there is. I think I can find it. Would you like to sit down?"

"I already am," Bashir told her. "I tripped over this chair earlier." He heard her stub a toe, but she held her breath rather than curse it.

She let out the breath. "Found the couch," she said and he could hear her smiling. He thought it amazing that one could hear a smile, but it was there nonetheless. "It must have been hard," she started. "Six months alone in a cave."

So now it was officially begun. "Six months, one week and four days," Bashir corrected.

She was silent for a moment and he guessed he'd caught her off guard. "Data said two weeks, five days."

"Well, I wasn't in the cave the whole time," Bashir admitted. "I was with Section 31 before that. They're the ones who put me in the cave."

"What is Section 31?" she asked.

"Didn't the captain tell you before he sent you down here?" Bashir countered evenly. "Or can't you read my thoughts?"

That took her by surprise, too. He could tell. "No," she replied, "on both counts. I'm only half Betazoid. I can sense emotions. I can only communicate telepathically with other telepaths. According to your records, you're not a telepath. Unless--"

"No," Bashir cut her off. "I didn't lie about it, if that's what you're getting at. To be quite honest, I didn't lie about anything. I simply didn't volunteer the truth about my DNA resequencing." He paused, taking a breath. "Section 31 is part of the Federation Charter, a sort of security force not unlike the Tal'Shiar or the former Obsidian Order. They work outside of the law to ferret out would-be traitors to the Federation."

"Isn't that what Starfleet Intelligence does?" At least she was indulging him and not questioning his sanity just yet.

"Starfleet Intelligence works within the law," he countered. "They don't torture their prisoners, for one. They don't generally kidnap Federation citizens or proceed on the assumption that one is guilty before proven innocent. In fact, they don't often deal with Federation citizens at all."

"So Section 31 polices citizens," Troi reasoned skeptically.

"We have police to police citizens. Again, they're within the law."

Troi was silent for a long time. Perhaps she was thinking they'd gotten off on a tangent. "So they kidnapped you," she finally said. "Did they think you a threat?"

Bashir had already decided to tell the truth about Section 31. He'd decided that his first few days in the cave. If he should ever get out, he would tell everyone. They wouldn't remain a secret. "I'm not sure," he answered, "I think so, but I proved my innocence."

"Through torture?" She didn't sound convinced, but at least she sounded a little concerned.

"Psychological torture, yes. They withheld food, deprived me of sleep, and kept me in a holoprogram. Of course, I didn't know it was a holoprogram. It was all very realistic. In it, I was accused by Internal Affairs of passing information to the Dominion. Everything I'd ever done was turned around to show that I could be sympathetic to the enemy. They had everyone turning against me. They even had Weyoun trying to convince me I was an operative."

"But you proved your innocence?"

Was that a touch of suspicion he heard in her voice? "Are you an interrogator or a counselor?" he asked her. But he didn't give her time to answer. He didn't want a confrontation. "Yes, I held that I was innocent all along, and I finally discovered the holoprogram. They even used an implant to analyze my neurosynaptic relays. They were convinced, so I should think you should be as well. I hardly think I was a danger to the Federation these last six months. Besides, it was all just a test. I passed."

"Why put you in the cave if they believed your innocence, if you passed?"

It certainly sounded like suspicion. Well, it was to be expected, Bashir supposed. "They didn't." He realized that was confusing, so he continued. "They let me go, returned me to Deep Space Nine. I reported the incident to my commanding officer, but he couldn't find any evidence. No transporter traces, no record of Section 31. Starfleet Command would neither confirm nor deny Section 31's existence."

"But you ended up in the cave."

Confused was better than suspicious. "That was later," he said again, "They returned. More than once."

"Because they still suspected you?"

Bashir smiled, though he knew she couldn't see it. "No, because they wanted to recruit me. I told them no. I find their methods repulsive. Their existence is against everything I believe in. But my commanding officer saw it as an opportunity for an investigation, as did Admiral Ross. I was ordered to say yes when they returned for me, to play along."

"And what did you find out?"

"That they knew me too well," Bashir responded, unable to keep the bitter tint from his voice. "They manipulated me, used my principles against me, and they used Admiral Ross to do it. I was led to believe they were going to assassinate someone and by trying to stop it, I unknowingly sent an innocent woman to prison and furthered their true plot, which was to secure a more powerful position for one of their double agents. I was again returned to DS9 and yet again ordered to go along with them in order to expose them. That," he explained, punctuating the point, "is why I ended up in the cave."

Silence again. Six months in a cave could drive anyone to insanity. Bashir was convinced that was what she was thinking had happened to him. "It's hard to believe," she finally said, "that the Federation would condone such an organization."

"That's what I told Sloan."

"Who is Sloan?"

"He was my contact, I suppose," Bashir replied, "my interrogator and then my recruiter and my judge. The cave was his decision.. A bit of creativity on his part."

_You asked once,_ Sloan's voice sounded in his head, _what would have happened if we didn't find you trustworthy. I admit, this is more creative than we usually get, but you get the general idea. You're an intelligent man, after all._

"I don't expect you to believe me, you know," he told Troi. "I wouldn't. If it hadn't happened to me, I wouldn't believe a word of it. Section 31 goes against every principle we've been brought up to believe in, everything we're supposedly fighting for. So why should you believe me?"

He hadn't expected an answer, and her answer surprised him. "Because I'm half-Betazoid." She moved a bit closer to him; he could hear her on the couch. "I can tell when someone is lying. You believe what you are saying."

Bashir leaned closer to her. "But do _you _believe what I'm saying?" She had no answer for that. So he asked her something easier. "Are you here to determine if I'm sane after my lengthy subterranean stay?"

He could hear her smiling again. "I think you're sane. It's more a question of stability."

Bashir nodded. "Do you think I'm stable?"

Troi laughed lightly. "I think I'll need more time to determine that." Then she became serious. "But I think everyone needs a little instability now and then. Get some rest, Doctor. It was nice meeting you."

"I'm sure I'll be seeing you again," Bashir said. As counselors go, he decided he liked her, though he was wary of her empathy. That could only complicate things. "I'm sorry I can't show you to the door."

"I can find my way, thank you. Watch your eyes."

Bashir took her advice and covered his eyes again. He heard the door open and close again and knew it was safe to uncover his eyes. He was tired. Probably a side effect of malnutrition. That, and he didn't know what time it was. He still didn't know where the bedroom was so he moved to the couch, remembering where Troi's voice had come from. He also remembered what she said. Everyone needs a little instability. Sounded good, but he couldn't use it. He couldn't get back to Deep Space Nine if he was unstable, and he had to get back to Deep Space Nine.

* * *

Geordi caught Data just before they sat down. "How is he?" he whispered.

"If you are referring to Doctor Bashir," Data replied quietly, "I believe Doctor Crusher will be giving us an evaluation of his health. If you are inquiring about his emotional state, Counselor Troi would be best to answer. I have only spoken with him for a few minutes last night. I cannot give an informed opinion."

Geordi gave him a smile, but let it go. He took his seat at the table. Data sat beside him.

"Good morning," Captain Picard said, starting the staff meeting. "Commander, have you finished analyzing the data?"

Data noticed that Riker looked more haggard today than usual. He shook his head as he spoke, "It's all gone. Every last living thing."

Doctor Crusher spoke up, "It looks like biomemetic gel."

Data let his breath out slowly and looked to the tabletop. In his mind, he quickly calculated all the lives that were lost. Deyon III had had a population of 6,521,372 humanoids and well over 50,000 species of animals. And he thought he could feel the loss of every one of them. It wasn't as deep as losing someone he knew, but the pain was there nonetheless. He'd been feeling that a lot lately. Like most mornings since the war began, when he started his shift, he turned off his emotion chip. The pain stopped instantly, and he straightened up in his chair. The others were looking down, too.

It was Captain Picard who raised his eyes first. "And what of our guest?" He looked to the doctor.

"He'll be fine," she replied, but not with her usual smile. "Malnutrition, some atrophy of his muscles due to inactivity, but physically, he's not in bad shape." She looked to Troi.

Troi wasn't smiling either. "Considering the trauma he's suffered, he's quite calm. He doesn't seem too excited about being rescued, but that could be shock."

"What about his story?" Riker asked. "What about Section 31?"

Troi took her time answering. Data thought perhaps she wasn't sure. "He believes it. Of that I'm certain. Whether or not it's true. . . ."

Riker leaned forward. "It can't be true. The Federation isn't like that. When we found him, he was talking to himself. He's not sane." Data noted a hint of bitterness in the commander's posture and tone of voice.

Apparently, Troi noted the same thing. She looked Riker in the eye. "I don't think you're qualified," she said, "to make that assumption. Hallucinations are not unlikely given his condition. And I found him to be quite rational."

"So did I," Picard agreed. "He didn't seem irrational or hallucinatory when I spoke to him, though, I admit, that was only very briefly. I wouldn't want to believe his story about Section 31 either, but with the war, a lot of things have changed. I want to talk to him again. He was put in that cave by someone. I doubt the Dominion would have bothered with the replicator, and he didn't strand himself. There has to be something to what he's saying, even it if is being distorted by trauma."

* * *

Bashir awoke expecting to touch the moist mud of the floor of the cave, but then he remembered where he was. The soft cushions of the couch met his hands. The _Enterprise_. He sighed and asked the computer for the time.

"The time is ten hundred hours," the computer intoned.

_Only a few hours,_ Bashir thought and wondered why he couldn't sleep now that he'd been rescued. He had slept often in the cave.

He cocked his head and asked the computer to repeat. He listened to the voice. He'd not really paid much attention to it when he'd heard it on the _Defiant_, but it was different from the voice on the station. More polite. "Thank you," he told it, knowing it was unnecessary.

"You are welcome," it replied.

Bashir rubbed his face, and his hand lingered over his beard and then made its way to his hair. His hair was long, past his collar. He couldn't imagine what he must look like. He stood and began feeling his way around the room. He found an open doorway and went through it, following the walls again there. Another doorway, this one closed. He found the panel and opened it, remembering where to touch the darkened controls. He reached his hand through and found cloth. A closet. He must be in the bedroom. Good enough. He'd have a place to sleep, or at least to lie down. He continued along the walls and eventually found another door. It opened in front of him and he was sure he'd found the right place.

It was then that he realized his eyes were straining. He was trying to see. He'd given up trying to see a long time ago, but now his eyes were strained. Light. He still couldn't see anything, but there had to be more light, just an increment more. Crusher had said they'd raise the lights gradually. It had to be starting.

Still, it was, for him, nothing to get excited over. In practice, he was still blind. He held his hands in front of him and explored the room. He found a counter and a sink. He moved his hands around the counter and found the shaver. He couldn't do much about his hair, but he could remove the beard. If he wanted his life back, he had to find a way to feel like himself again. Like the increment of light, it was a start.

Afterwards, he rubbed his face again and felt only smooth skin. It felt odd, but familiar. He took a shower and wished that it was a water shower instead of a sonic one. He wanted to feel warm water on his skin. Still, he felt cleaner when it was done. He found the closet again and changed clothes, wondering what it was he'd been given to wear.

He was trying to find the replicator when the door chimed. He thought for a moment that the counselor had returned. Then he changed his mind. The door chimed again. The Captain, or may be First Officer. There were questions that needed asking. "Come in, Captain," Bashir called, deciding that they would want to limit the introductions just now.

The door opened and closed. "Good morning. How did you know?"

"Deduction." Bashir didn't bother to face Picard. He wouldn't be able to see him anyway. Besides, he was hungry. He continued his way along the wall: a dish, a table, the ports, but no replicator.

"Can I help you find something?" Picard asked after a moment.

"Replicator," Bashir replied.

"Of course," Picard said, though Bashir didn't hear him move. "About three meters to your left."

Bashir spun around. "You can see me?" He forgot about the replicator and was intent on the direction of Picard's voice. He still could see nothing. Not even the slightest hint of light. Perhaps he had gone blind.

"Night vision of a sort," Picard replied. "Something my Chief Engineer, Geordi La Forge, cooked up."

Bashir still looked. Night vision glasses or goggles usually gave off some detectable glow. But he could see nothing. He remembered La Forge from the last time he was on the _Enterprise_, when he met Data. He was an inventive man and he was blind. Technology helped him to see past the darkness, and perhaps now he was helping his crew to do the same. When he spoke, his voice with quiet. "Must be nice."

He turned back to the wall and moved to the left as Picard had indicated. He found the replicator and then froze. He'd eaten the same thing for so long, and now he could order anything. It was like the whole universe had opened up to him. He couldn't decide.

"Doctor Crusher recommends eating light for now," Picard suggested.

He was still undecided as to what he really wanted, so he took Crusher's advice and ordered scones with jam and tea. There was a familiar sparkle in the center of the machine, something he could actually see. He watched it until it went away. He reached a hand in to where the sparkle had been and found the food, just as he'd ordered it. He might know the technology, but it still felt like magic to him at times like this. _A little starvation will do that to you,_ he told himself. He carefully picked up the tray of food and walked back to where he'd found the table. "You don't mind if I eat while we converse, do you?" he asked Picard, not really caring what the captain's answer would be. He was hungry and he was going to eat. It didn't matter what Picard thought.

"No. Do you mind if I join you?" Picard asked in turn. He moved. Bashir could hear him walking across the room. "Tea, Earl Gray, hot," he ordered at the replicator. Then he walked over and pulled out a chair. "I can describe the quarters for you, if it will help," he offered.

The jam was heaven. The fruit burst to life on his tongue. Starfleet field rations were worse than bland. He'd almost forgotten what real food tasted like. He nearly lost Picard completely in the sensation. "Um, no," he replied. "It's better if I find everything myself."

"It will only be for a few days," Picard countered.

"A few days," Bashir repeated. "A lot can happen in a few days."

"Point taken."

Bashir dipped another scone into the jam and waited for Picard to continue the interrogation he'd begun in Sickbay.

Picard didn't disappoint him. "Tell me about Section 31. Why did they maroon you?"

"I told you already," Bashir answered. But he was willing to repeat himself. He wanted Picard to know about them. He wanted Picard to believe him. "They marooned me because I betrayed them. I lied. My commanding officer told me to join them in order to find out more about them. I didn't want to have anything more to do with Section 31 but I followed my orders. I joined them. I infiltrated them. But they caught on and weren't appreciative."

"I've never heard of them," Picard said. Bashir heard him sip his tea.

"I'm not surprised. If you had heard of them, they wouldn't be as effective. Their victims don't expect them either." He finished the last of his scones and rose to return the plate to the replicator.

"Counselor Troi told me you spent time with them before they sent you to the cave," Picard went on. "What did you do during that time?"

Bashir thought for a moment of questioning Troi's ethics. But it was counterproductive. No harm was done. At least not yet. He sat back down and answered the question. "I trained." There were still some things he wasn't going to tell about. There was always the possibility that Section 31 was still listening. "They couldn't just hand me an assignment, not like before. I had to train and they had to trust me. In the end, they didn't."

"What did you learn in your training?"

Julian wished he could see the man. So much was said in a face. All he had were words. "A good many things," Bashir replied, again only planning on half-truths. "Practical things. Policies and procedures mostly. I can give you a full report for you, if you'd like."

"That would be helpful, thank you." Picard agreed. He must have decided to change the subject, because he let the subject of Section 31 rest completely. "My Chief Engineer has asked me to ask you about the transmitter. It was quite delicate work, even for an engineer."

Bashir cut him off. He knew where this was leading. "I took extension courses in engineering at the Academy," he said. "I'm not an engineer, but I do fairly well with Federation equipment."

"But converting a portable replicator into a transmitter is unheard off. How did you know how to do it? Such a thing wouldn't be taught in an extension course."

"I'm genetically enhanced," Bashir said, guessing that that was what Picard was getting at. "I read about them."

"Them?"

Apparently Picard was hoping for more. "Replicators and transmitters," Bashir clarified. "Do you know why I took the extension courses?" He imagined Picard shaking his head. The captain was silent so he went on. "Because one of my patients died. He didn't have to die. Not if I'd known what I know now. Any second year engineering student would have known. But I was in medicine. I had no idea and neither did anyone around me. And so the man died. I didn't want that to happen again."

"So you studied transmitters and replicators?"

He wasn't used to being so open, but he'd already started and he didn't see any risk in what he was telling. "No, I read about those more recently, but for similar reasons. I've starved. No matter what the science behind that little device on the wall, it's really magic to someone who has starved. You can't starve with a working replicator. I wanted to know how to fix mine in case it broke. I never wanted to starve again."

"And the transmitter?"

"Dominion Internment Camp 371."

"I don't understand."

"I was replaced, before the war started," Bashir explained. "I was held in the camp in the Gamma Quadrant. One of the other prisoners in the camp had converted an old life support system into a transmitter. He sent a signal into the Alpha Quadrant to Deep Space Nine. It's because of that signal that I'm not still there. I wanted to know how he did that. Once I thought of it, there in the cave, it really wasn't so hard to visualize the circuitry. I had a lot of time to concentrate. It was difficult in the dark, but I could see the circuits in my mind."

"You sent a signal only Data would understand." Not a question, but it implied one.

"Someone else might have heard. I didn't know if I was behind enemy lines or if Section 31 was still monitoring me. I knew I could trust Data, so I called for him."

"You're fortunate he got it," Picard replied, and Bashir could feel the interrogation slipping into a more conversational tone. "We only found your signal because we were ordered to the neighboring system. It was quite coincidental. You're lucky we found you at all."

Bashir chuckled just once. "Lucky? I suppose that's one way to look at it. The other way is to see that I'm an extremely unlucky individual."

"Why do you say that?" Picard asked, sounding a lot like Counselor Troi.

Bashir took a breath, but kept his voice even when he spoke. "I've been shot, shocked, beaten, replaced, flogged, gassed, had my fingernails ripped out, and my hand broken repeatedly with a hammer. I've been a prisoner of war before the war even started. I've been berated and kidnapped. I've been a slave. Twice! I've had someone reach inside my chest and grab my heart. I've been thrown into cells and nearly suffocated." He'd never said so much before. He had kept most of those things in.. "And yet, here I am. Still standing. Yes, I'm a very lucky man. Or I'm not."

Picard was silent for a long time. Bashir could hear him sip his tea. Stalling. Too much, surmised. He'd said too much. Picard didn't know how to respond.

"I know how that feels," Picard said finally, taking Bashir by surprise. "Like fate must be against you. I've been a Borg, you know. It still haunts me. But I'm still here. It's not a curse. You'll see that, given time."

"I had six months," Bashir countered, barely speaking at all now.

There was silence after that. Bashir didn't feel like speaking. He had lost the words.

"Bridge to Captain Picard."

Bashir heard Picard tap his commbadge. It had a familiar little chirp, and he remembered a time when his own commbadge had meant so much to him. "Picard here," the captain replied. "What is it, Commander?"

"We'll be leaving Dominion space within the next half hour, Captain."

"Very good." Bashir got the distinct feeling that the captain was relieved. It was an easy way out. "I'll be right there." There was another chirp, and the comm line closed. "Good news, Doctor. We'll be able to inform your family and Starfleet Command of your recovery."

"But will _they_ think that's good news?" His voice was barely above a whisper, so he wasn't even sure if Captain Picard heard. He was surprised then when Picard touched his arm.

"They're your family," Picard said, equally as quiet. He raised his voice little. "And Starfleet Command needs all the officers it can get." Then he pulled away and the door opened. The sudden flash of light sent a stabbing pain through Bashir's head, but it faded after a few moments. Bashir was left to imagine what his parents would think, what they would feel, when they found out he was alive after all. Starfleet Command was another concern. But not the same. To Starfleet he was just another officer, one who had lied. His parents loved him. He was their son.

* * *

Picard waited until the _Enterprise_ had crossed over the Dominion lines. Only then did he relax his fingers. He hadn't realized how hard he'd been gripping the arms of his chair. The Dominion did that to him. The Borg gave him nightmares, but the Dominion made him nervous. He feared the Borg, but he also understood them. To a point. They were straightforward, purposeful, relentless. They had no need for deceit. The leaders of the Dominion specialized in deceit. Their minions were no less relentless, but they are not straightforward. They were clever, with more personality than the Borg. They had heartfelt, if manufactured, devotion where the Borg only had programming. They had a fire, a drive, where the Borg had just a steady hum.

"Mr. Data," he said with a voice as steady as it would have been if the ship had been traveling to Risa, "contact Starfleet Command, secure channel. I'll be in my Ready Room. You have the Bridge, Number One."

The transmission was already put through by the time he sat behind his desk. He tapped the control, and a face appeared. Admiral Necheyev smiled at him, but he noticed that her eyes didn't smile with her lips. She looked older, more haggard. But then, almost everyone he knew did, too. The war did that. "Good to see you again, Captain," the admiral said.

"And you, Admiral," Picard responded. "There was nothing there. Not a single living thing."

Necheyev nodded, her smile gone. The rest of her face was as severe as her eyes. "We expected as much." She looked away, and Picard could see the pain she felt. Deyon III used to have a population of over six million. The report had come some three months earlier. A rumor. The total destruction of life on Deyon III. The rumor even gave a reason: biological warfare. The _Enterprise_ had been sent to confirm it.

"Dr. Crusher was able to identify the cause."

"Biomemetic gel?"

Picard nodded. "We'll be filing a full report as soon as we've had time to complete our analysis."

"Very good." Necheyev was all business now. "Though I can't say I'm looking forward to reading it. Thank you, Captain." She was about to disengage the transmission.

Picard held up a hand. "There is something else, Admiral."

* * *

"I've got news, Captain."

Captain Sisko was surprised by the call. He'd already talked to Admiral Ross twice that week. But something about the admiral's face told him he shouldn't mind the interruption. "Good or bad?"

Ross didn't answer the question. "They've found Bashir."

"Bashir who?" It wasn't that the name wasn't familiar. It definitely was. Sisko didn't forget the names of the casualties among his own crew. Especially not ones he considered friends. But Julian had been found more than three months ago. Or rather his body had been found.

"_That_ Bashir," Ross answered, looking Sisko straight in the eye.

Sisko shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Neither did I." Ross agreed. "But it's true. Dr. Julian Subatoi Bashir is alive."

Sisko barely breathed for the next five minutes. It only took that long for Admiral Ross to tell what he knew. Sisko called Colonel Kira into his office and invited her to sit down. She looked at him, confused, as he paced back and forth across the floor. But he wasn't sure how to start. And he wasn't sure how he felt. He was happy, overjoyed. But it was such a surprise. Such an unthinkable surprise. "Julian's alive."

Kira just shook her head in little staccato movements.

Sisko sat down beside her and touched her arm. "Julian's alive," he repeated. "Admiral Ross just told me he was picked up by the _USS Enterprise_."

She was still shaking her head. "Where?"

Sisko stood up again and turned away from her. "Behind the lines. I don't know any of the details. Ross didn't know. Just behind the lines."

When he looked back at her, she had stopped shaking her head. She caught his eye. "It was them." She was resolute. "Section 31."

Sisko felt a stab of pain in his chest. Guilt. He hoped she wasn't right. But he also hoped she was. Any other reason for Bashir to be behind the lines would only be worse. "I don't know."

"I do."

Sisko sighed. "Gather the senior staff in the Wardroom, just the ones that knew him." He didn't think the other doctors needed to hear just yet. If it were true, they'd find out soon enough.

* * *

"What can I do for you, Beverly?" Picard asked as Doctor Crusher stepped through the door. He could just catch a glimpse of the bridge beyond and Riker standing near the command chair. The door shut and he focused on the doctor.

"I'm concerned about Bashir," she answered, holding out a PADD.

"In what way?" As Picard reached for the PADD, thoughts of changelings, clones, and Borg ran through his mind. The last one was irrational, a traumatic reaction. But the others were possible, maybe even probable. He pushed those thoughts away. No sense jumping to conclusions. He read the PADD.

Doctor Crusher summarized it as he did. "It's his medical history. I downloaded it just after we ended radio silence. That, and the number."

Picard was scanning the document. Bashir had a history longer than his service record. "Which number?"

"The one that isn't in there," she replied. "Mind if I sit?" She waited for him to nod and then continued. "It's on his arm. A tattoo, and a crude one at that. The letter A followed by six digits on the inside of his left forearm." She demonstrated as she spoke, running a finger along the inside of her arm.

Picard watched her. That rang a bell, but not a clear one. It was odd. Not that he had a tattoo, but that he had _that_ tattoo. A and six digits. It was distinctive to anyone who had studied Earth history. A and six digits. Auschwitz. But that was hardly likely, given the man's age. "Perhaps he had a relative," Picard suggested, "who survived the Holocaust. Keeps it as a reminder."

"I thought so, too," Beverly admitted, then pointed to the PADD, "until I checked his medical history. There's a whole block there. He was treated at Starfleet Medical for a multitude of injuries, including lacerations to his back, malnutrition, and--"

"Cyanide poisoning." Picard had found it on the list. "It's impossible."

"As impossible as Will and Geordi riding in the _Phoenix_ with Zephram Cochrane?"

Picard looked up at her. "Exactly just as impossible. You're telling me he traveled in time to Auschwitz? Why would he do such a thing?"

"I don't know," Beverly admitted, sitting back. She was obviously frustrated. Her face was just slightly flushed and her lips turned down in a frown. "Starfleet Command isn't telling."

"War will do that," Picard reminded her. "I suppose Starfleet thinks it's not our business, otherwise it would be in the records. Still, it is curious. What made you go through all this trouble? He didn't look to be in too bad a shape."

Beverly held up one hand, palm facing in, fingers spread. "His left hand," she said. "It's roughly thirty-three years younger than his right. Or rather the bones are."

Picard shot one eyebrow up and waited for her to explain. "That would make me curious."

She nodded and pointed to the PADD again. "Osteogenic replacements, same time frame as the others. He had every bone in his left hand replaced. It took some wrangling with the computer even to get those records. I think Starfleet doesn't want us to know."

Picard handed her back the PADD. "I never thought I'd have the opportunity to be in the company of a survivor. And of the gas, no less. Cyanide poisoning. It had to be the gas. In fact, he said so, though I hadn't placed that until just now. He also said his hand was broken with a hammer. That probably explains the bones. What was the number, the first three digits?"

"One seven three."

"That's fairly early," Picard said, speaking more to himself. He was trying to work out the date. "1942, or '43 perhaps."

"Well," she said, leaning forward again. "You know more about that than I would. Though I thought your historic interests ran to more ancient things."

"Some things just stand out and demand to be noticed, Doctor," Picard told her with just a hint of a smile. "Like a one-year-old hand on a full-grown doctor."

She smiled back. "Thank you, Captain." She stood up to leave.

Picard stopped her. "Considering Starfleet's apparent reticence on this matter, we should probably keep it under wraps ourselves for now."

"Of course," she said, all seriousness again. "But I'm still worried about him."

Picard nodded and waited for her to leave. He glimpsed the bridge again. Riker was looking his way. "So am I," he whispered. "So am I."

* * *

The door opened and he knew who it was before he uncovered his eyes. He smiled. "Data."

"How were you able to identify me?" the android asked.

"I could hear you," Bashir told him. "The captain was already here, and you're too heavy to be Troi."

"Understood." Data stepped farther into the room, and Bashir realized that he saw him. "How are you feeling today, Doctor?"

"I can see you!" Bashir blurted out. Data wasn't clear to him, not even a distinct person-shape.

"That is good."

Bashir looked around the room. He could just make out other things. Blobs of dark or light different from the universal darkness he'd lived with for months. One must have been the couch, another the doorway. He hadn't noticed them before. "It was the movement," he explained. "I could see you move. Now I can see other things."

"You have shaved," Data said just as bluntly.

Bashir was reaching for the blob that he believed to be the couch. "I didn't like the beard," he replied, "but I couldn't do anything about it until now." He touched the blob. It wasn't the couch. It was the chair. Close enough. "Have a seat, Data. Tell me what all I've missed."

"I have done some research on subjects I thought would be of interest to you."

Bashir stopped him. "Tell me about you first. We're friends, aren't we? Let's catch up."

"I saved the Earth from being assimilated in the year 2061," Data offered almost as a question.

Bashir laughed, not long, and not loud. He didn't want to insult his friend. "That's good. Thank you. But how have you been? How is the emotion chip working for you?"

"It is," Data began, and then he stopped and tried again. "It is what it is."

That struck Bashir as very philosophical but also very true. "Meaning?"

"There are times when I am happy to have it and times when it is a liability. I can feel happiness and security, even love. But I can also feel anger and fear and hatred. I've turned it on less often in recent months."

"War is hell," Bashir concluded.

"Indeed," the android agreed. "I sometimes wonder if leaving it off is a disservice to those we have lost."

Bashir envied him, but he didn't let that show. "The chip is good," Bashir told him, "but I've come to believe that all good things come wrapped in sadness. It's a package. You get them all together."

"War brings a unique set of circumstances," Data held, "more bad than good. It will be different when the war ends."

Bashir spoke quietly, allowing himself to speak what he truly felt. "There is bad that lurks in peace, Data, and revels in war, when it comes."

"You have changed," Data said simply.

"People change," Bashir replied, not denying it. "I'm no different."

"I hope," Data said, "that when this war ends, peace will change people as much as war has. You used to be optimistic, excited about life. The war has taken that from you."

Bashir nodded, thinking that through. It was true that the optimism and excitement were gone. But was it the war that had taken them? Perhaps. If there hadn't been a war, would any of the other things happened? Probably not, though it wasn't an excuse. "It has taken a lot of things, Data. Let's talk about something else. Let's pretend there is no war even if it's only for a minute or two."

They managed for more than an hour, until Data was called away for duty. They talked about what had happened in the years since they had met, but left out the war and the losses. Data told him about the passing of the Enterprise_-D_ and the innovation of the _Enterprise-E_. Bashir told them about how Molly had grown and Kirayoshi had been born. He even caught himself smiling before the android left. But the war inside him never left. He could ignore it, push it away, but he couldn't pretend it wasn't there.

Knowing he was weakened by his exile, Bashir decided to exercise. The movement would re-condition his muscles, and exertion would occupy his mind. Perhaps, too, he'd wear himself out and sleep that night. He started slowly, with stretches. He sat on the floor, put his legs in front of him, and reached for his toes. He could almost touch them. Almost. He stretched farther, feeling the pull at the back of his legs. He stretched and did sit-ups, more than a hundred. He moved on to harder things, things that took more exertion. Push-ups, jumping jacks, and others. By the time he stopped, he had collapsed on the floor.

He lay for a while, just listening to his heart pound in his chest. He didn't move a single muscle except to blink the sweat from his eyes. He didn't think either. In that, at least, he'd been successful. By the time the door chimed again, his pulse had long since slowed to a peaceful seventy beats per second, and he'd watched the light levels in his quarters rise by 4.2 percent.

He raised his head when he heard the chime. Troi he guessed. The other senior officers would be on the bridge, except perhaps the doctor, but he wasn't due to see her until evening. It would be Troi. He wished she'd go away and leave him in peace there on the floor, but he resisted the thought. She was Betazoid. Maybe she couldn't read thoughts, but thoughts could lead to feelings, and he had to guard those carefully. Troi was the key on which his freedom depended.

"Just a moment," he called. His arms still felt rubbery but they pushed him up anyway. He used the couch for extra support as he got to his feet. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. He was thankful for the darkness. She wouldn't see if his color was off. "Come in."

The door opened, and he found that he didn't have to cover his eyes. They stung a bit behind his eyelids, but the light from the corridor was tolerable. The door hissed shut and he opened his eyes. He could just make out her silhouette. There was a definite, though not sharp, border which separated her from the door behind her. Everything was like that now. "Hello. It's Counselor Troi." He could hear her smiling.

He smiled back and hoped the smile found its way to his voice as hers did. "I know. I can tell by your hair."

"You can see my hair?" she asked, stepping farther in. "I can't see a thing."

No goggles. Good. He preferred to be on an even playing field. "Give your eyes time to adjust. There's light here, just not a lot." She stepped toward the couch, but he backed away. "I've been exercising. I need a shower. I hope you don't mind." It was the truth. She would know that. Feel it. "I'll be quick and it will give your eyes time to adjust."

He knew she'd smile graciously. "I don't mind at all."

He paused in the doorway and let his guard slip a little. Just a little. "No water showers?"

"The _Enterprise-E_ is a practical ship," Troi replied. "No luxuries. Sometimes I miss that about the _Enterprise-D_. But we're at war. This is a stronger ship."

"Like the _Defiant_," he agreed. There was a time, he thought, when sonic showers were a luxury. "I'll still just be a minute." Sonic showers were also faster, so it didn't take long to wash the sweat away. He didn't bother combing his hair. Neither he nor the counselor could see it anyway. He joined her again in the living area.

"You're right," Troi agreed when he sat down. "I can just make you out. You feel better now, having rested?"

"I'm fine," Bashir told her, skirting the question. "I'm anxious to have my life back, if that's what you mean."

"Is that why you were working out?" Troi asked.

Questions. Just like a counselor. "I was working out because my muscles had begun to atrophy. But yes, in a way. I'm not in the cave anymore. I want normalcy."

"Understandable," Troi nodded. "And we're not trying to keep you from it. You're not a prisoner here."

Too close. She was an empath. He knew that. He had let too much slip. "But my eyes keep me here," he said, hoping to cover. He sighed. "I just want to erase the last six months. To go back where I was. I know that's not realistic."

"But it's natural to want it," Troi interpreted. She paused, probably thinking of the right words. "We can't erase the past, but we want you to have your life back, too. We need you. We need every Starfleet officer we have. Every doctor. But you'll understand we have to know you're well first."

"Yes," Bashir agreed, allowing himself to smile for her sake. "But it's harder when you're on the receiving end."

There was silence between them for a moment or two. Then Troi spoke. "We've contacted Starfleet Command. They were quite surprised. They're investigating."

Bashir sat up. This wasn't about counseling. This was official business. "Investigating what?"

Troi took awhile to answer. "There was a body," she said finally, "identified as you."

Bashir nodded again. That was worthy of an investigation. "Either I'm not who I say I am or the body isn't who you thought he was. May I ask which way you're leaning?"

"I've done some research," she replied. "There was some question of the body's identity. If you hadn't been missing for three months, there would have been more questions."

"So you think I'm me," Bashir concluded, hoping she'd agree. He was himself, and an investigation would only cause delay.

* * *

Troi regarded him for awhile in the dim light. She reached out her senses to him--again--and felt only his presence. The sincerity perhaps, certainly no sense of deception. "I do," she said, "and I think the investigation will prove only a formality." She waited for a wave of relief, hoping that by contrast she could sense the worry that he might have felt. But there was only the slightest of ripples. "You aren't relieved?" she asked.

"Should I be?" he questioned in return. "On simply the belief of the counselor? If someone wants the investigation to prove that I'm an imposter, it will happen. There is still so much uncertainty. Relief would be premature."

Logical, if a bit pessimistic, maybe even paranoid. He was guarded, carefully controlling any feelings he might have. Either that or he'd become hollow in his imprisonment, ripped of all but the slightest of emotions. He was enhanced. The former was possible. The latter was no less probable, but perhaps more treatable. She needed to get him talking, feeling.

"How do you know Data?" she asked, hoping to draw him out in a non-threatening manner.

He brightened, and it took her by surprise. It was the contrast that she had been looking for before. It was is if he had become a color--pastel, not brilliant--but it allowed her to see that he was a dark gray before. "The how is ridiculous," he replied. "But it inadvertently led to his discovering his dream program. I was fascinated at first by the care his creator had taken in making him appear human. He breathed, had a pulse, could grow his hair. But the more we spoke. . . . I felt I'd found something of a kindred spirit. I don't mean to sound arrogant, but there aren't many people who can keep up with me when I'm really into something. That's often a barrier in my relations to people, but not with Data. He could keep up, even surpass me. I felt free. I don't know if that's understandable."

The brightness faded a bit. He wasn't emotionless, just diminished. "I think I can understand," she told him, prepared to reciprocate if it would help him to trust her. "I'm an empath, with a sense beyond that of my crewmates. Their feelings bombard me. I must constantly block them and defend against the tumult of it all, especially now with the war. When I'm with my mother," she smiled mischievously, "despite her abrasiveness, I feel free. She's stronger than I am, able to dominate the scene enough to block out so much of the others. And I trust her."

"Exactly," he agreed, brightening again. "I trust Data. It wouldn't work if I didn't trust him."

"You'd feel threatened instead of free?"

"Not necessarily. But wary anyway."

Troi felt as if she were getting something now, but she wasn't sure what it was. Distrust? That's what it felt like. Not that she felt it. She didn't. It was the words he chose. But why distrust? He trusted Data but not Data's crewmates? Or perhaps it was wider than that. That was possible. If what he said was true about Section 31, then he might be manifesting his trauma in a general distrust of the Federation, as if it were too good to really be true.

"Do you trust me?" She asked, deciding to be blunt.

"I don't know you," he countered.

True enough. It wasn't an admission but it wasn't a denial either. "Then perhaps we should get to know each other," she offered. "What would you like to know?"


	2. Chapter Two

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith, Part I: Hope**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Two**

Captain Picard stepped forward to greet the passenger as he alighted from the shuttlecraft. Security stood by, as did Doctor Crusher and Commander Riker. "You understand the precautions, of course," Picard said, returning the man's salute.

"Of course," the man returned with an amiable smile. "We can't be too careful these days." He didn't even turn his head when Crusher administered the test. Behind him, Security had moved into the shuttle and were firing specially calibrated phasers at every inch of her. Doctor Crusher stepped away and nodded. "Lieutenant Commander Martin, Internal Affairs," the man said, identifying himself. "It's good to finally meet the famous Captain Jean-Luc Picard. I should have guessed it would be someone of your skill who would catch Bashir."

Riker stepped forward at that. "Catch?" he asked.

"We rescued _Doctor_ Bashir," Crusher corrected, emphasizing Bashir's title.

The smile vanished from Martin's face. He took on a more somber visage. "I'm sure that's what he wanted you to think. He's enhanced, you know. Not an easy man to best in a mind game. And that's what he's playing. A mind game. I've been after him for months, and I haven't even been close. Then he turned up dead. And then he turned up not dead. Clever. But this time he doesn't know I know or that I told you. We have him."

"Why would he 'turn up' at all?" Crusher asked, snapping shut the medkit she was holding. "If he was evading you, why would he want to be rescued?"

The blond man didn't answer. Riker didn't give him time before firing off another question.

"Why were you after him?"

"Enough." Picard stepped between the three of them. "This is not the place to discuss this." Picard looked around and instantly people began to look busy again. "We'll convene again in my Ready Room." Picard turned on his heel and expected them to follow. He was silent until they were all present and safely behind closed doors.

Martin was the first to speak though. "I have orders, Captain. The prisoner is to be transported to Starbase 136 for holding until such a time as he can be transferred to a maximum security prison."

Picard spun around. Martin was holding out a PADD, and Picard snatched it from him. It contained orders, just as Martin had said.

"Under what charge?" Crusher demanded, clearly unhappy with Martin and his mission.

"Illegally releasing eighty-five liters of biomemetic gel to an unknown recipient," he said, speaking slowly, "and accessory to genocide."

"Where's your proof?" Picard asked. "What evidence do you have?"

Martin seemed taken aback by their questions. "Why the _Enterprise_, of course. Your own findings support that biomemetic gel destroyed Deyon III. And Bashir's own records from Deep Space Nine record the release of the gel. None other is unaccounted for."

Picard expected Riker to point out the obvious, but Riker wasn't speaking at all. So Picard offered to do it. "You said you'd been after him for months. We only discovered the cause of destruction of Deyon III."

"There were reports, Captain, several months ago."

"Rumors," Picard corrected, "and only a few months ago, around the time Bashir was declared dead. You said you were after him before that."

"Any sizeable release of gel such as this is investigated, Captain," Martin replied, with a patronizing manner. "The charges were only just amended to include genocide." Martin took back the PADD. "So you will please take the prisoner into custody and set course for Starbase 136."

"I will not," Picard stated firmly, which finally caused Riker to speak.

"Sir?"

Martin seemed just as interested in an explanation.

"We are not a dictatorship, Commander, or even an autocracy. Doctor Bashir is a Starfleet Officer and a citizen of the Federation. He is entitled to a fair trial or an official court martial. Besides, there are other sources of biomemetic gel outside the Federation, and Deyon III lies well outside the boundaries of Federation space, as it has since the defeat at the Bystron Belt."

"He's already had a trial," Martin countered. "Last week. He was tried in absentia and found guilty."

Crusher's mouth gaped open in astonishment. "Last week you thought he was dead!"

Martin turned to her and gestured with his hands as if he were speaking to a thick student. "Which is why he was unable to attend."

"He is able now," Picard held, "to attend."

Martin sighed. "You can contest my orders all you want, Captain, but you'll have to do it at Starbase 136. I'm sure that Captain Jean-Luc Picard can talk them into a retrial, but we still have to get there. And since we have to get there, it would be a wise idea to keep the genetically-enhanced accused locked safely away."

"He can't leave his quarters as it is," Crusher pointed out, the fight having left her in the wake of Martin's logic. "His eyes keep him there."

"Or perhaps he only lets you believe that," Martin countered. "But I leave it to you, Captain. It's your ship. I do believe James Kirk treated Khan as a guest on his _Enterprise_." With that, he turned on his heel and left the room.

"Doctor," Picard suggested, looking at Riker, "find Mr. Martin some guest quarters, please."

"Jean-Luc," she started to protest. But Picard held up a hand to stop her.

"Later, Doctor," he said. "I haven't decided anything yet."

She didn't argue, but it was obvious she wasn't happy as she swished out the door.

"She's going to put him on Deck 4, I can feel it," Picard joked, hoping to lighten his First Officer's mood. There were crew quarters on Deck 4 in stark need of repair after their last firefight. Some didn't even have life support.

"You can't just leave him there," Riker said with a complete lack of humor.

"On Deck 4?" Picard asked. "It was a joke."

"Not him. Bashir." Riker's intensity had returned with his voice.

"What about him?" Picard didn't like where this was going. "He gets a fair trial, Will. And a _full_ investigation. I expect you to be honest and impartial."

"I will investigate impartially," Riker agreed, catching the suspicion Picard was throwing at him, "but I'm not impartial. I stood on that world."

"_Innocent_ until proven guilty."

"But not free," Riker countered. "The accused can be held in custody until trial."

"He's already held," Picard repeated what Crusher had said. "He can't leave his quarters for the light." He thought quickly to divert Riker from quoting Martin. "And there's medical proof of that."

Riker turned away in frustration. "He's enhanced."

"So?" Picard returned. "He's not guilty of that either. I believe his father is currently finishing a prison term for that."

"There may not be any light in his quarters," Riker argued, skirting the ethical question of genetic enhancements altogether, it seemed, "but there are devices. The computer, the comm system, the replicator. He could take over the whole ship from in there."

Now it was Picard who turned. "You're really reaching there, Will." He went behind his desk and sat down.

"Am I?" Riker asked, leaning his arms against the desktop. "Khan did it. He read everything he needed in the ship's database, right from his guest accommodations."

"I don't need a history lesson, Commander." Picard felt his face heat up in anger. "Bashir is not Khan."

"Bashir read something and turned a replicator into a transmitter in complete darkness."

Picard didn't answer. He wasn't sure what to say. If Bashir was guilty, he could be capable of such a thing. But if he was innocent, he didn't deserve to be imprisoned again. He'd been through enough.

"He's been in a cave for six months," Riker continued, trying a different track. "A cell in our brig is a major improvement in accommodations. Warm, dry, clean, and three square meals a day."

"And no freedom."

"If he's innocent, we risk having to apologize," Riker added, standing up again. "I'd do it personally. But if he's not, we risk more by leaving him free. A lot more."

Picard looked at him. Riker didn't know. He'd never been a prisoner before, not like this. He didn't know what the loss of freedom could do to a man who'd already suffered so much. He didn't know that it was as much torture as having one's fingers broken with a hammer.

But he did have a point. The pips on Picard's collar weighed a ton each when he spoke. "Have Data escort him to the brig."

Riker was only too eager to turn for the door. He didn't know. "Yes, sir."

"Dim the lights," Picard reminded him.

Riker nodded. "To Doctor Crusher's specifications." The door opened for him.

"Will," Picard called, stopping him. "He's to be comfortable and treated with respect--the respect an innocent man deserves."

Riker's intensity dropped a bit, but his voice was sincere. "I'll make sure of it." Perhaps he had an idea after all.

"You should gather your things," Data was saying.

"I don't have any things," Bashir replied, standing, "though I do remember having some shoes. Where are we going?"

But Data didn't answer. "Please just come with me. I will inquire about the shoes."

"Alright." Julian could see only the usual darkness and shadows beyond Data's distinct silhouette. They'd dimmed the lights in the corridor for him again. Data turned and Bashir followed him out the door.

Perhaps it was time for a medical check-up to see how he was recovering. But that wouldn't require him to gather his belongings. Still, he wasn't worried. What, ultimately, was there to worry about anyway? If something was going to happen, it would happen. Worrying wouldn't change a thing.

But when Data called out the deck in the turbolift, Bashir felt his pulse quicken quite involuntarily. They were going down. Why down? The lift stopped and he followed Data out into the corridor. "I should amend my earlier question," Bashir decided. "Where are you taking me?"

Data stopped and turned to face him. "I would prefer you did not ask."

Bashir sighed, but he didn't give in. He sensed something important was happening, and he wasn't going to follow blindly just to save the android's feelings. Or his own. "I'll know when we get there so you might as well just tell me."

There was a pause, and Bashir took that as sincerity and respect. A pause like that was an eternity for a positronic brain.

"I have been ordered to escort you to the brig."

A wave of panic hit him in spite of his former musings about the ineffectiveness of worry. But the empath was always in the back of his mind, so he shut the panic down, thinking instead that the brig was no different than the darkened quarters he couldn't leave. There were differences in comfort, of course, but the principal matter was the lack of choice. In that, they were the same.

It was obvious that this wasn't easy for Data, so he wouldn't make it any harder. Keeping his voice calm, he touched Data's arm. "Then lead on." Data nodded and they began to walk again.

There were others waiting in the brig. Security officers probably, but one stood out more. A tall, imposing man. "Holding cell three, Data," the man said.

He was familiar with Data but also commanding. He wasn't Picard, so that only left Riker. And that fit the voice Bashir had heard earlier in Sickbay. Bashir stopped in front of him. "Commander Riker."

Riker's voice was strained, as if it were an effort to speak directly to him. "Doctor."

"Am I allowed to know why I'm being imprisoned?"

"Of course," Riker replied, stiffer even than before. "Though this isn't imprisonment. We're just holding you pending an investigation."

There was only one investigation of which he was aware. And since he knew he was himself, he doubted it could lead to incarceration. Something else was going on. "What investigation? What are the charges?"

"I don't know if I'm the one to inform you," Riker stalled.

"I have the right to know," Bashir held, "unless my status is so in question as to leave my possession of rights in doubt."

Riker was silent. He apparently got lost on the last sentence. Finally, he spoke, and his voice was more fluid, more sincere. "If that were the case, you _would_ be imprisoned. We're going to make sure you receive a fair trial."

"That's kind of you," Bashir returned, "but I'd still like to know the charges."

"Illegal release of biomemetic gel, for one."

_Ah, that.__ So Sloan had got wind of his release from the cave. "I want an advocate," he said._

"I volunteer," Data spoke up. "I will act as Advocate."

"Data, you don't even know all the charges," Riker argued.

"Regardless," Data stated, "I know the accused."

"Number three," was all Riker would say.

It was easy enough to turn and follow Data to the cell, but he found it quite difficult to step into it. _It's just a room,_ he told himself, _just a room._ It didn't feel like just a room. He could hear the forcefield humming. _You knew this would happen_, he argued. _They wouldn't just let you leave._

_But I'm innocent,_ he argued back. _Sisko ordered it._

But that didn't change anything. Either he'd be found guilty or innocent. The truth was no good unless it was accepted. And whether or not it was accepted was out of his control. Everything beyond his own body was outside his control. So the cell was just another kind of room.

All that was easier thought than really believed, however. He forced his body to calm down. He didn't want the empath to come racing down here because she sensed his panic. The cell might only be a temporary setback. She could set him back for months.

Only then did he realize that Data had been talking. "I will do some research on the charges."

"I was ordered," he told the android, his advocate, the one he could trust. "I asked for written orders, and I filed an official protest."

"Then it should be a simple matter to clear up," the android concluded with a smile.

A smile wasn't enough though, not for Bashir. "I'm being framed, Data," he said. "Section 31 is behind this."

The android side-stepped the last statement. "I will do my best to clear you, Doctor." He turned to go.

"Data," Bashir called. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Data turned and cocked his head just slightly. "I am honored you consider me a friend," he finally said.

"Then call me Julian," Bashir said. Then he added, "I trust you, Data."

Data nodded and walked out, leaving him alone--except for the guard, though he hardly counted as company--in the darkness. Well, mostly darkness. He'd been too preoccupied with the idea of incarceration to notice it before, but he was squinting and his eyes hurt. Though the lights were turned down in the brig, the forcefield on the door to his cell meant that the frame was lit. Had the light been at the other side of the room, it might not have bothered him. But as it was, the light was only a few meters from him at the farthest wall of the cell.

_I've had worse,_ he reminded himself. Resigned, he sat down on one of the benches that would serve as his bed. He leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes, cutting most of the light out. With nothing else to do, he set his mind to one of the games he'd learned to play to occupy the endless days--or rather, nights--in the cave. Since he was in the brig, he started there. It was much easier here on a starship, he realized, since it was Federation technology such as he'd studied. The station, with its hybrid of Starfleet and Cardassian, was more difficult.

Visualizing the walls around him, he chose one and peeled back the first layer, exposing the circuits, conduits, and vents behind it. Within an hour, he'd deconstructed the whole thing. And with the thought that the other two walls were just the same, he turned next to the forcefield that held him in. Walls were easy. A forcefield generator was an actual device, not just a structure. But his mind had little else to do but worry--and he didn't want to do that. By the time Picard and Riker came to him, he'd laid bare every wire and circuit and put them together again.

* * *

"I'm sorry to wake you," Picard said, forcing Bashir to open his eyes.

"I wasn't asleep," Bashir replied. "I was thinking." He squinted against the light coming from the door, and Picard realized why his eyes had been closed.

"May I ask what about?" Picard asked, curious.

"Have you become the ship's counselor?" Bashir asked, matching Picard's own tone of voice.

Picard stiffened, but he understood the brusqueness. Beside him, Riker bristled.

"I was thinking about forcefield generators," Bashir supplied anyway.

Riker glanced at Picard, but the captain ignored him. "I'm sorry we had to hold you here, but you are facing some very serious charges."

"You keep apologizing," Bashir said, not bothering to stand up, "but I'm still in here. You didn't have to do anything." He leaned forward. "Or don't captains still make the decisions on starships?"

Picard bit back a sharp reply. Of course, it had been his decision in the end. "There are risks--"

"Guilty until proven innocent, it is then," Bashir cut him off, his tone softening. He leaned back again. "I didn't expect anything more, to be truthful."

Didn't expect more? Was that just his way of saying he understood the risks, the logic in the decision? Or did it mean something else? "We don't consider you guilty," Picard replied. "We will investigate the matter thoroughly."

Bashir stood now. "He does," he stated, inclining his head toward Riker.

"Have you become a telepath?" Riker threw back just as Bashir had earlier. Picard shot him a look to show his displeasure at the interruption.

"I didn't read your mind," Bashir claimed, "but I can read faces, especially with that damned light. I can read your tone of voice, the way you carry yourself in my presence. I disgust you. Tell me, Commander, is it because of the present charges or my genetic status?"

Picard gave Riker another warning glare, and Riker wisely ignored that loaded question. "You don't seem overly uncomfortable in there. And I'm sure it's only temporary."

"Well, that does make me feel so much better," Bashir admitted, though with ample sarcasm. "What you believe doesn't change at all the fact of my innocence. Cell or no cell, I know the truth."

Picard almost admired Bashir's philosophy, but it still worried him. He'd been reading up on Bashir--service records, psychological profile, etc. Picard never would have imagined such stoicism. His records had described him as a passionate, compassionate man with a buoyant sense of humor and an easy bedside manner. What was it about the cave that had changed him when the other events in his life had not? Was it the duration? The solitude? Or had it been simply the last straw?

"Can I get you something to eat?" Picard asked, feeling sympathy and a commonality with the man in the cell.

"No," Bashir replied quickly, sitting down again. "I don't need anything."

"Please, don't go hungry," Picard admonished, remembering the list Bashir had recited only yesterday.

Bashir gave him a sidelong glance that held both bitterness and amusement. "Eight hours is _hardly_ going hungry."

"Suit yourself," Riker interrupted again. Picard was liking less and less his First Officer's attitude. "You wanted to hear the charges?"

"I already know them," Bashir returned. "Illegally releasing eight-five liters of biomemetic gel to an unknown recipient."

Picard nodded. He'd gotten half of it right. Bashir knew the exact amount though. Picard glanced at Riker. He hadn't been told the amount before.

"Then you don't deny releasing it?" Riker asked, taking notes on a PADD.

"No," Bashir returned, keeping his voice calm and confident. "I deny releasing it illegally."

"Would you like to have your advocate present," Picard offered, ready to call Data down from the bridge.

Bashir waved a hand to dismiss it. "It's not important. He's already heard." He leaned forward, facing Picard and ignoring Riker. "I'm sure you've been reviewing my records. Did you happen to note an unfortunate incident with a Lethean four years ago?"

Telepathic coma. Picard had noted it. "You were attacked and nearly killed when you found a Lethean ransacking your Infirmary." It was a very rare thing to survive such an attack. That had made it memorable. That and the one link with this case.

Bashir nodded. "And did the records say why he attacked me?"

Picard knew the answer. "Biomemetic gel," he supplied. "You refused to sell him any."

"I refused to sell him twenty milliliters," Bashir corrected. "Do you really think I'd just give away eight-five liters?

"Perhaps the Lethean didn't offer you enough," Riker suggested.

Bashir glared at him. "He offered to compensate me well, I assure you. I refused. I won't be bought." He was so direct, so blunt. Picard believed him. That was one thing in his records that fit. He wouldn't be bought. "Check my accounts," the doctor went on. "Did I receive anything in return for the gel? Eighty-five liters should have made me a rich man." Then, suddenly, the fire left him. He sank back against the wall again. "But I'm sure that can be faked as well as anything." He turned his head toward Picard. "But the simple truth is that I was ordered to release the gel. I warned my superior of the possible effects and insisted on written orders, which he produced. I then filed an official protest with his knowledge."

"Your superior officer," Picard repeated. "Captain Sisko?" Why would Sisko order the release of so much gel, especially after his CMO protested.

"The only one I've ever had," Bashir confirmed. "He wouldn't tell me why. He didn't have to. The orders came from Starfleet Command."

The same Starfleet Command that had tried him in absentia for it? That didn't make sense. "That should be easily verifiable," Picard said, hoping to offer encouragement. He turned to go and Riker wisely followed.

"You'd think so," he heard Bashir say as he stepped through the door. The guard slipped back into the room behind them and the door closed.

Riker scratched his chin. "What do you suppose he meant by that?"

Picard didn't like his conspiratorial tone. "He believes he's being framed. Records can be altered." Picard turned to face Riker. "You aren't to see him anymore."

"Sir?" Riker asked, dropping his hand.

"He may not be able to see very well yet, Will," Picard explained, not wanting to be too harsh. Riker was a good officer, even if he needed reminded of it just now. "But he could pick up on your dislike of him. You've already said you're not impartial. I'll handle the investigation myself if you don't think you can do it?"

Riker squared his shoulders, taking the discipline like an officer. "I _can_ be impartial," he said in his defense. "It's just his attitude. . . ."

Picard held up a hand to stop him from continuing. "His attitude is mild considering what he's been through."

"Not if he--"

Picard shook his head, dispelling the end of that sentence as well. "Innocent until proven guilty, Will." He let that sit for a moment and then pressed on with business. "See if we can't get the lights turned down around the forcefield. I'll be in my Ready Room checking on those records."

* * *

Bashir was pacing his cell like a caged tiger when La Forge entered the room. "Hi, Doc!" he said, smiling. He was carrying a tool kit and he motioned that the guard could leave the room.

"Hello," Bashir returned, stopping to face the engineer. "May I ask what you're doing?" he was curious but he had to turn away again. His head was throbbing. He rubbed his eyes with the fingers of one hand.

"I'm going to fix your lights," La Forge replied amiably. "Are you alright?"

Bashir turned around and dumped himself onto one of the benches. "Headache," he mumbled, throwing one arm over his eyes to block the light that was pounding on his eyes.

"_That_ I understand." Bashir heard him pad away. He lifted his arm and then his head, but he only saw the lonely toolbox before he had to close his eyes again. La Forge was already coming back though, and the light beyond his eyelids went off with a slight chirp. "Something for your headache," La Forge explained.

Bashir sat up and peered through the now dark and open door. A dark figure was there holding something out to him. He went to the edge of the door and took what was offered. A glass of water and two small pills. "Thank you," he said, recognizing the drug to be a low-level pain reliever.

"My VISOR used to give me the worst headaches," La Forge explained. "Seeing more than your eyes can take in comfortably, I suppose." He hadn't replaced the forcefield yet "If you need something stronger, we'll have to get Doctor Crusher down here."

Bashir swallowed the pills and took another drink of the water, finishing off the glass. "I don't suppose I'm allowed to prescribe anything myself."

La Forge smiled sympathetically, his features becoming more clear now as Bashir's eyes adjusted to the more comfortable light levels.

"You're not wearing the VISOR anymore," Bashir noticed.

La Forge's smile widened. "Implants," he explained. "They work about the same way, but they're much more comfortable."

"I'm glad for you," Bashir told him, feeling it, too. Technology could be beneficial. Even forcefields. He was still standing in the empty doorway near where La Forge was already working to remove the panel so he could get to its circuitry. Bashir edged one toe forward across the line that marked the door of the cell until it hung just over the edge. He wasn't sure why he did it. He wasn't going to try and make a break for it. That would only cause himself more pain and make him look guilty. No use in that. But one inch across the line was no different than behind it. Still, it had the allure of freedom, and he just felt he had to touch that.

La Forge was kind and kept up a conversation as he worked. It wasn't an important conversation or even a very stimulating one. But it was something to do. It wasn't alone. It wasn't imprisonment. You were still a person if someone across the line was willing to engage you in small talk. And Geordi didn't seem to mind that while he sat, Bashir's hands and feet were in reach of the line and even dangling into the freedom beyond. To Bashir, it was almost as if he were having a pleasant chat with a friendly acquaintance. Almost. The fact that there was a line at all reminded him of the reality.

"That should do it," the engineer said, shutting the panel. Bashir pulled his hands and feet back quickly, back into captivity. "I'm sorry about this," Geordi offered. He stood for a few seconds before he touched the controls.

Bashir handed him back the empty glass. "It's alright," he lied. "Do your job." There was a brief snap of light and then the dimness with which he was comfortable. The forcefield was back, but at least the light wasn't.

"Good luck," Geordi offered, and Bashir felt it was sincere. Then he was gone and Bashir expected to be alone until Data returned, except, of course for the guard who moved back inside the room when Geordi went out.

However, within minutes of Geordi's departure, the door opened again, blasting a momentary brightness into the doorway. Bashir was unable to look to see who had entered. But he could hear the voices. They were low and quiet, but he could still hear them, even if he couldn't make out all the words.

"--talk here," one voice said. Unfamiliar. Maybe the guard. "--asleep."

"Not here," the second voice. Two words was all Bashir needed. That voice, the only one to keep him company in all his months in the cave. Sloan's voice.

"Anyone--walk by the corridor," the guard argued, and Bashir wanted to side with him. If they stayed in the brig, he could hear them, maybe learn their plan.

"Not here," Sloan whispered harshly. There was no mistake. The guard must have taken the hint because the door closed, and with the light gone, Bashir could see that he was alone. It all made sense now. Well, at least part of it. It made sense if Section 31 was the only answer Bashir needed. They were here. They'd framed him. They were up to something. And now he'd have to find something to be up to as well. He laid still, waiting, thinking, counting the seconds and minutes until the guard's return.

The door opened again and Bashir saw only one silhouette against the light. The guard was returning. Then he heard another voice and saw another silhouette. "Why are you not at your post, Mr. Dolson?" Data asked.

The guard, Dolson, answered, "Commander La Forge was just in here to take the lights off the forcefield. I was just returning."

"Mr. LaForge finished twelve point four eight minutes ago. Take your post, Ensign," Data ordered. The door closed and Bashir breathed a sigh of relief to see that Data had come in with the guard.

Though the light was low, it had been steadily rising and now was only as dark as perhaps a normal night in a room with only a few windows and a few stars to light them. One's eyes could adjust to such levels. And Bashir's eyes were better than most. He watched carefully to see where Dolson went and what he did. His hands were on his console, but they seemed to remain steady. Still, Bashir wasn't comforted. Dolson would be watching, if that was really his name.

Data approached the cell, his expression giving nothing away. "I was unable to find any record of the order or your protest," he said.

Bashir worried about speaking openly. Dolson would certainly be listening in, reporting to Sloan. Even in the cell, he was vulnerable. And he knew that Data was vulnerable, too. Then he had an idea. "They were probably deleted," he said. While he spoke he moved his hands. His right arm brought his fingers to the side of his forehead and then pointed at Data. Then he brought his two hands together, index fingers raised and circled them toward himself and around each other, palms facing out. _Do you know sign?_ he was asking.

Data's head cocked to one side in his only show of surprise. He lifted his right fist and nodded it forward while he said, "I looked for signs of tampering but could find none."

"I'm not surprised," Bashir replied. _Who was that man?_ his hands asked.

"I could only perform a level one diagnostic, however," the android went on. _Lieutenant Commander Martin,_ his fingers replied, spelling the name, _Internal Affairs._ "A more detailed scan from Deep Space Nine might be more revealing.

Bashir's head nodded, but his fingers argued. _No,_ they said, _that was Sloan, Section 31._ "There would have to be residual data fragments somewhere. What about my logs?"

"There was no mention in the medical logs beyond your notation of the release of the gel," Data said. _How can you be certain?_

"Perhaps you can call Miles and see if he could have a look." _I have proof! There was PADD in the cave with me. Did I have it when you found me?_ The signed words took longer than the spoken sentence so he threw in some small talk. "Did you find my shoes?"

"Yes, though your previous uniform was destroyed." _We found no PADD._

"But not the shoes?" _It was there. His voice is on the PADD._

"I have had them sent to your quarters," Data replied. _I will find it._ "May I ask why you are so concerned over those shoes?"

"They fit really well," Bashir smiled, satisfied with the outcome of both conversations. Data turned to leave, but Bashir stopped him. "Data," he called, waiting for the android to turn again. "Thank you for believing me. At the moment, you're the only one I can trust." His hands had something else to say, something he suspected. They knew Data was his advocate. Data was vulnerable. _They're here and you're in danger. Don't sleep._

Data left the holding area and went back out into the light. Dolson nodded to him as he left the brig, and Data noted that the guards eyebrows were pulled down in undeniable confusion. He had still been uncertain as to whether he believed Bashir, though he was willing to act as if he did in order to offer the most effective defense for him. But Dolson's knitted brows lent the man some credibility. It was possible that the guard had been watching the unusual exchange.

Sign language, given the technological and medical advances of the last few centuries, was an archaic form of communication. There were few truly deaf people anymore, and thus little use for it. Data had learned it years ago in order to act as the voice for a visiting ambassador. But he was surprised that Bashir had learned it. Whatever had been his reasoning for doing so, it had apparently been to his advantage. Dolson would most likely be unable to interpret the secondary conversation between the accused and his advocate.

"Bridge," he ordered the turbolift, deciding to go straight to the captain with his suspicions. The turbolift sped upward until the doors opened revealing the Bridge. The young ensign in the Ops position began to rise from her seat, but Data motioned for her to stay. It did not escape his notice that Martin, or perhaps Sloan, was also on the Bridge. "Captain," Data said, facing Picard, "if I could please speak with you in your Ready Room."

"What about?" Martin asked.

"That is not your concern," Data replied flatly. "If it was, I would be certain to include you in the discussion."

Martin smirked but didn't protest. The captain had simply watched the exchange with curiosity. "Of course, Mr. Data. I'll be right there."

Data entered the room, hearing the captain give parting orders to the Bridge crew. When he entered the room, Data waited for him to settle into his chair and for the door to close fully before he spoke. "Has Commander Martin been in here?"

"Not since he first came on board," Picard replied, leaning back. "I thought you said this didn't concern him."

"It may not," Data admitted. "Bashir believes that it does. I need to request the use of a long range shuttle."

"For what purpose?" Picard asked. He leaned forward again, concerned. "You don't trust Martin."

"If Bashir is correct, sir," Data warned, trying not to say too much, "it would not be wise to speak openly. I believe I can find evidence that will corroborate Doctor Bashir's statements. It would be too much of an unnecessary risk to take the _Enterprise_ back across enemy lines, but I believe a single shuttle could slip in undetected."

Picard blew out a breath, and Data hoped that he was guessing what Data was not saying. He would need to take the shuttle back to the cave. But if Sloan knew that he was doing so, he might be intercepted. Finally, the captain nodded. "Radio silence, Data," he ordered. "But hurry back."

"Of course." There was one other thing before he left. "Someone will have to act as Advocate in my place. Bashir's rights must still be respected."

"I'll do it," Picard agreed. "This hasn't smelled right from the beginning. Find what you need to find, Data."

* * *

Captain Sisko steepled his fingers while his elbows rested on the arms of the command chair in the center of the _Defiant_'s Bridge. "Anything?"

"We're being jammed," O'Brien reported, biting back a curse.

"Source?"

"I can't tell," O'Brien replied. "It appears to be coming from every bloody direction. We can't get a signal in or out."

Sisko didn't take his eyes off the forward viewscreen, but he directed his next words to the Tactical Station. "Keep your eyes open, Mr. Worf. They're out there."

* * *

Data was gone, but Picard stayed in his Ready Room. He'd already noted that Martin had left the Bridge, but still he felt more comfortable making the call in some semblance of privacy. He called Commander Riker in, since he would need a witness to anything that was said. Once Riker was seated, he placed the call. He was not surprised to see the Bajoran female on the viewscreen. She was the station's First Officer. Her eyes lit up when she saw who was calling. Picard noted her rank insignia. "Good to see you again, Colonel," he offered in greeting. "Congratulations on your promotion."

"Captain Picard," she said, "of the _Enterprise_? Thank you. It's good to see you as well. I believe you found our doctor."

Straight to the point. He admired that about the Bajorans. It was also nice to see the loyalty built up amongst the mixed Federation/Bajoran crew of that station. Picard nodded, but decided he must still be guarded in what information he gave. "That we did. He's doing well and looking forward to returning home."

Kira smiled. "I hope that will be soon."

"As do I," Picard conceded. "But that may take some time. He's been through a traumatic experience."

Her bright smile faded quickly into concern. "Could you tell him that he's missed?"

"I will certainly pass that message along," Picard agreed. But there was still business to be attended to. "May I please speak with Captain Sisko?"

Kira regained her composure and stood straight, looking very much like the commander of the station that had stared down a Romulan fleet and came out on top. "The captain is away from the station," she said. "In fact, he's on his way to meet you. He hasn't called?"

Riker met Picard's glance before they both turned back to the colonel. "We haven't had any word from him," Riker informed her.

"Neither have we," she admitted, "not since fourteen minutes ago. We got an urgent communique from Starfleet Command. They were unable to contact the _Defiant_. We haven't had any better luck."

It wasn't hard for Picard to pick up on her concern. The enemy was still out in force. "We'll keep our eyes out for him. Thank you for your time, Colonel." She nodded once, frowning, and then cut off the transmission. "Alert Tactical, Commander," Picard ordered. "I want this ship on Yellow Alert until further notice. Try and hail the _Defiant_." He couldn't help but think it would be too convenient if something should happen to Sisko. Since there was no documented evidence to corroborate Bashir's story, Sisko was his only potential alibi at this point.

Riker stood. "Yes, sir."

* * *

Alone again--except, of course, for the guard--in the gradually brightening dimness, Julian Bashir found he couldn't sleep. He felt the nearness of the forcefield even though he was several meters from it. Even more, he felt the presence of eyes watching him. Dolson was watching, quite literally, for Sloan and Section 31. The captain and Riker were watching, if not so literally, to see if he were innocent or to see that he was guilty. And Troi, she didn't have to see him; she could feel him. She forced him into a cell far more confining than the brig with its forcefield.

For the moment, then, he doubted what he had done. The cave was wet and cold and uncomfortable. It was lonely, but in that it was also peaceful. Though trapped inside it, he had freedom there. No one was watching or listening. No one who mattered had even known he was there. Considered dead or out of the way, no one had tried to kidnap or kill him in all those months.

Now, freed from the cave, he was more trapped, captured again by the tidal waves of history. Alive again in the greatest war of the galaxy, knowing too much about both sides, one bad, the other not good. Sloan should have killed him. He knew too much about Section 31 and the dark side of the Federation. He was a liability to too many people. The Dominion, too, was still out there and would probably be only too happy to find him in their grasp again. If they should capture him again, he had no doubts that he would find being marooned in an underground cavern more tolerable.

No, things would not be easy out here. He was better off dead. Maybe everyone else would be better off, too. No one to tell their secrets; no one to stand in their way. And yet, he had dreamed of release from the cave and now freedom from the cell and a return to Deep Space Nine. Deeper and deeper into the fire. It didn't make sense.

* * *

The whole situation sat ill in Captain Picard's stomach. More and more it began to look as if Bashir were telling the truth. And that sat even more ill in his stomach. The existence of a group like Section 31 within the Federation was disturbing at best, frightening at worst. Thoughts of the Gestapo or the East German Stasi of Earth history came to mind.

But even that didn't explain the gel and the destruction of Deyon III. Bashir's record argued strongly against his being involved with that kind of destruction. But then so did Sisko's, except perhaps for the incident with Eddington and the Maquis. But even as questionable as that was, there had been a reason. The people of Deyon III were no threat to the Federation or any of its allies. In fact, until the recent change in battle lines which pulled the Deyon system into Dominion control, Deyon III had been an important source of deuterium. That taken into account, it seemed more likely that the Dominion poisoned the planet, a point which Picard planned to bring up if Bashir's case wasn't dropped. A full analysis of the decay should provide a timeline and also the amount of gel needed to produce the destructive agent. That alone could clear Bashir of any involvement in genocide. And Sisko, should he arrive, could clear him of illegal release of the gel.

If all that panned out in Bashir's favor, then it would only seem more ridiculous to charge him, let alone convict him in absentia. Which would only fortify his own charge that he was framed, and not even framed well. And that opened up further questions of who would frame him and why. It was possible that there were those in Starfleet who were unhappy that he'd been allowed to keep his commission and license after the revelation of his genetic status. But there were channels. One could file a protest, request a hearing, transfer him to an undesirable post, or follow any number of other official methods to make life more difficult for the man. One need not invent charges, delete records, and put together a show trial. Such acts could only damage the careers of the accusers if the accused were exonerated.

That really then only left Section 31, which brought Picard right to where he'd started. Bashir was telling the truth, and the Federation was telling lies. No, that just didn't sit well at all.

Doctor Crusher and the science team were working on the analysis. Sisko was on his way. There was really nothing to do but wait.

* * *

There was a foreign light in the cave. It sparkled and shimmered and would have frightened the little fish in the stream if they'd had eyes that could see it. But it was short-lived, replaced by the now fully assembled atoms and molecules that made up a man dressed almost as darkly as the cave. He carried his own light and flicked it on, shining the palm beacon on the muddy floor of the cavern. He could see the left-over foot and hand prints detailing Bashir's subterranean existence. But he saw no PADD. He removed his tricorder and set it to scan for synthetic materials and alloys. The only such deposits were in the west, away from the stream, and in the vicinity of the refuse Commander Data had found during the rescue mission, just to the north. He checked there anyway, and only found the same ration wrappers that the commander had found.

The man returned to the first room, the one where the replicator was found. But it was not there. He knew that it wouldn't be. The _Enterprise_'s records clearly showed that it had been taken aboard. He turned west and followed the same corridors the others had followed when they'd discovered Bashir. The tricorder showed a small deposit of synthetic alloys not four meters from Bashir's position at that time.

Kneeling down, the man reached into the mud at his feet. He shined the beacon on his muddy hand and the objects it now held. Circuits. Chips and circuits. Not for the first time, the man thought that his superior had taken things too personally. Distance was a prerequisite in their duty, the man had found. Taking things in made you vulnerable to errors. Errors jeopardized everything.

* * *

Bashir knew it was night on the ship when the light stopped rising in the brig. It had grown steadily brighter to a point where he could just begin to discern colors of objects. While still a dark room to others, the brig was now the closest thing to daylight he'd seen in months.

The door had opened once since Data left, to allow the security guard to change shifts. Dolson was off, but was the woman who took his place someone to be trusted? It occurred to him that all this might once again be a holoprogram, courtesy of Sloan, but it lacked certain similarities with his previous experience. The down time for one. Sloan had given him no opportunity for sleep. He'd only had any number of opportunities this time, though he'd been unable to sleep for more than a few hours since leaving the cave. Likewise, he'd been denied food before, except in the one circumstance where he wouldn't accept it. This time, he'd had a working replicator in his quarters. He'd been offered food in the brig as well, though he hadn't found himself hungry since entering the cell.

It was possible, if this was a hologram, that Geordi wasn't Geordi and the pills had done more than relieve his headache. But it didn't follow that he shouldn't be hungry or sleepy. That was what one desired when tormenting a prisoner. You would want the prisoner to feel uncomfortable, and despite the lack of freedom and the tickle in the air produced by the forcefield, Bashir didn't feel overly uncomfortable.

There were other things that didn't add up. Data was one. He'd understood the sign language and even responded in kind. And the sloppiness. When he'd first run into Section 31, Sloan had thought of everything, covered every escape, hid every clue--except for Chief O'Brien's shoulder injury the night before. This time there were too many holes he could fall through. There was no easy, clean way to get Bashir off the ship and Sloan had to know that.

And since he hadn't slept, Bashir doubted he could have been transported without his knowledge. He decided against the holoprogram, though he didn't rule it out completely.

The door opened and Bashir sat up, ready to face whoever entered, solid or not. It was Picard. Thankfully, he'd returned without Riker. "I thought you should know," Picard said, stopping in front of the cell, "I'll be acting as your advocate until Commander Data returns."

Bashir met his eyes, trying to see if there was any deception there. He saw only a neutral expression, and perhaps weariness. He thought it best to remain neutral as well. "Thank you." It was good news after all, if one accepted that this wasn't a holoprogram. Data had left the ship to find the PADD. Perhaps Sloan would have a turn in the cell. He'd probably be set free soon after, but it would be a small victory. And small victories were really all he bothered to hope for anymore.

"You still haven't eaten," Picard observed. "Is twelve hours going hungry?"

"If one were hungry, perhaps," Bashir agreed. "But I'm not hungry."

Picard didn't argue or push. He just nodded. "Well, I should hope this will all be cleared up before you do become hungry. Captain Sisko is on his way here."

Bashir stood before he realized he was doing it. He walked to the edge of the forcefield. The air there crackled and pricked the hairs at the back of his neck. "He's coming here?"

"You seem surprised," Picard said, furrowing his brow. "If he gave the order, he could clear you."

Bashir turned away, feeling a weight drop into his stomach. "If he'll admit to it," he said quietly.

Picard had heard though. "Why wouldn't he?"

"Because he was very secretive about the whole thing," Bashir told him. There was no reason not to be truthful. If this were a simulation, Section 31 already knew the truth. If not, Picard would need to know it as his advocate. "He was very cold when he gave the order. He refused to give me a reason. He knew I'd ask for the order in writing, and he knew I'd protest. He never told me, or anyone else that I'm aware of, what the gel was for. I don't think he'll tell you either."

"Not even to defend you?" Picard asked.

Bashir faced him again, lowering his voice so that maybe the woman in the back wouldn't hear. "He ordered it. He ordered me to infiltrate Section 31. I don't think he was too concerned with my opinion or my welfare. I don't see why he would be now."

Picard stepped closer and softened his own voice. "We didn't ask him to come," he said. "We didn't have a chance. We can't get through to him; he'd already left the station when we called. He's coming simply because he knows you're alive."

That couldn't be it. Maybe O'Brien asked him to come. Maybe it was Dax. It wouldn't be Sisko, unless perhaps he felt guilty, though that was unlikely given the lack of concern for Bashir or the gel at the time of either of the orders.

Picard didn't wait for a response. "Colonel Kira asked me to tell you that you were missed."

Kira. Bashir turned away again, closing his eyes and fighting his emotions. He'd managed to keep everything on an even keel so far, not so much to fool himself as to fool Troi. If one expected too much positive, one would only be disappointed in the end, and disappointment was painful. He'd learned that lesson.

* * *

Picard sensed Bashir's distress. He seemed torn. "You miss her, too," he guessed. "Are you good friends?" Or was it closer than that?

"She saved my life," Bashir replied quietly, sitting down again. "Or at least she tried. I suppose it took a lot of people in the end."

"In the end of what?" Picard hoped to keep him talking. He knew from personal experience how hard it was to do that but also how much it helped when he did.

"Auschwitz," Bashir said, surprising Picard with his candor.

He hadn't expected Bashir to be quite so open about it. Picard turned and motioned Lieutenant Veleo out to the corridor. "Doctor Crusher mentioned seeing a number on your arm," Picard admitted, keeping his voice low as well. "And some of the things you mentioned earlier. I suspected. '42 perhaps."

"'43," Bashir corrected him, still staring at the wall, "February." He sounded almost hollow, the way Picard sometimes felt about what the Borg had done to him. "And March."

Two months. "May I ask how?" He was worried that perhaps he was asking too much, but he couldn't help the curiosity. One didn't meet a survivor of the Holocaust often in this day and age.

"The same way you saved the _Phoenix,_" Bashir replied. "Protecting the timeline from the enemy."

"The Dominion," Picard realized. Not the Borg. So the Dominion had tried to change history, too.

"Don't worry," Bashir said, not sounding particularly assuring, "we stopped them."

"But why Auschwitz?" Auschwitz wasn't the place to change the timeline. Berlin, perhaps, but not a death camp.

"Revenge," Bashir clarified. "We stopped the Founders' ship, but we missed the one changeling on our own. She was upset."

He had a flair for understatement. Picard recalled Crusher's report of how she found him in the cave, mistaking her for someone else, several someone else's, all the same person. The changeling. "She was in the camp with you."

Bashir sounded tired when he replied. "Not with. Against. She killed thirteen of us. I was the only one she sent to the camp. The others mostly died right away. She kept me alive until the others found me. Seven and a half weeks. Only one of my friends survived. Only one."

Picard regretted the need for the cell again. "It must make it harder for you, being in there."

Bashir tipped the corners of his lips up. "This?" he asked, turning his head toward Picard. "This can't even compare." The hint of smile disappeared. "Fortunately, I've found very little that can."

Picard chose to turn to the lighter side of the issue. "How did Kira save you?"

"She came after me," Bashir explained, "the last night, when Heiler was taking me to the gas. She almost made it in time. She killed the changeling anyway."

_Almost made it_, Picard thought. "How did you survive?"

"Transporter," he replied, "and then several days in the Intensive Care ward at Starfleet Medical."

"And Sisko?" Picard asked, trying to break through that wall. "What did he do?"

"He was different then." Bashir turned his head, looking away. Sisko was definitely a sticking point with him. "He stayed," Bashir continued, "for seven and a half weeks, looking for me and the others. He and the crew pulled sixteen hour shifts repairing the ship. And once they located me, he beamed down personally to transport me back to the _Defiant_. He was there in the hospital when I woke up. He'd been there the whole time, I think, nearly a day."

"Sounds like a good captain," Picard commented. It sounded like himself--on his better days. Sisko would have moved heaven and earth to find his people, and once he did he stood by them. Picard was surprised when Bashir agreed.

"He cared about his crew. All of us."

"And now?" Picard wanted to get at the difference.

"He cares about the war."

* * *

"Captain," Worf's deep bass broke the silence on the bridge. "Long-range sensors have detected a ship."

"What kind of ship?" Sisko asked. It was the first ship they'd come across since leaving the station nearly twelve hours earlier.

"Federation," Worf replied, checking his instruments as the _Defiant_ closed the distance. "Starfleet. Captain," his voice increased in intensity, "it is the _Enterprise_."

"Hail them," Sisko ordered, hoping that this time they'd get an answer or even an outgoing signal.

"We're still being jammed," O'Brien reported from Operations, "and you'll never guess the source."

Sisko perked up and leaned forward toward the engineer. "Not the _Enterprise_."

O'Brien just raised an eyebrow.

Why would Picard be jamming the _Defiant_'s signal? "Are there any other ships out there?" he asked Worf. "Enemy ships?"

"No, sir," Worf returned. "There is a Starfleet shuttle, however, fifteen hundred kilometers out."


	3. Chapter Three

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith, Part I: Hope**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Three**

Bashir was surprised to feel the transporter so close. He wasn't surprised that it had come. Inside the cell was not really necessary, but Sloan often tried to add flare to his dealings, going beyond what was simply necessary. "You're slipping, Sloan," Bashir said, not even opening his eyes. "I'm not asleep."

"Perhaps," the man acquiesced, and Bashir could hear him smiling. Just like him to smile. "I've come to make you an offer."

Bashir sat up and looked at him, noting also that there was no guard in the room. Sloan was sitting on the other bench, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled on his knee. The picture of calm, still smiling. "You tried that before," Bashir told him. "I wasn't interested, remember?"

Sloan's smile broadened. "Well, I think this time you might be."

Bashir allowed him a patronizing smile of his own. "Well, then, why don't you go ahead and tell me so I can refuse again."

"You won't refuse," Sloan said. He appeared certain. "You're not made for confinement. You've had too many cells already. You need space and freedom. You need people. People who will talk with you and not just to you. You need people who appreciate you for your talents."

"And you're all of that?" Bashir wasn't convinced. "I thought you didn't trust me."

"I'm a good judge of character," Sloan held. "I knew you'd try something just as I knew you'd try to stop Koval's murder. You still saw things too much in black and white. You needed a little time is all."

"And you think six months changed my mind about you?" Bashir almost laughed. "You are warped, you know that, don't you? I couldn't loathe you more. Before it was moral, now it's personal."

Sloan did laugh. "Be that as it may, your choices are a bit limited."

"How so?" Bashir asked. "Seems to me that outside the cave, the choices are endless."

"You're in a cell," Sloan pointed out, spreading his arms to take in the small area. "You could come out of the cell, or you can spend the rest of your life in one."

"Oh," Bashir said, nodding. "I see. Those are the choices you've left for me. Face the charges now that you've had time to destroy the evidence or come quietly with you."

"No more cells," Sloan offered, trying to sell it. "Think of the freedom. You could even be a doctor again. Section 31 needs doctors, too."

"Sounds inviting," Bashir admitted, "but only in contrast to the alternative you stated."

"It's the only alternative," Sloan maintained. "We've made sure of it."

Enough of the game. "As I said before," Bashir told him, dropping any pretense of pleasantries, "you're slipping. You used to be so clever. Your threat's no good. I will be released."

Sloan smirked again. "We'll talk again later." He stood and walked right out the door, leaving Bashir to wonder if the forcefield was still active. He stepped forward and he could feel it prickle his skin. It was still there. But Sloan was not.

* * *

Commander Riker and Counselor Troi stood with Captain Picard in the transporter room. They seemed relaxed enough. Troi was smiling, probably looking forward to seeing Chief O'Brien and Worf again, even if only for a short while. Riker stood with a completely neutral expression, giving nothing away. Picard himself had been captain long enough to smile when he didn't feel like smiling. Like now. He didn't know what to expect. He knew Sisko to be an exceptional officer, and he respected him as a man and fellow captain. But if one believed Bashir--and Picard found that he did--Sisko had handed over a large amount of an extremely dangerous substance to someone of unknown reputation.

Three glowing figures appeared on the pad and coalesced within seconds into Captain Sisko, Chief O'Brien, and a lieutenant Picard didn't recognize. She was a short young woman, a Trill with dark hair and spritely eyes.

"Captain," Picard said, smiling and extending his hand. "It's good to see you again."

"And you," Sisko responded, taking his hand but not returning the smile. Picard thought first of the initial hostility Sisko had held when they first met. But that had changed between them, and Sisko gripped his hand firmly, without malice. His words were those of concern. "How is he?"

It was going to be complex then, between this man and Bashir. "Things could be better," Picard replied, trying to be truthful without making them think the worst. "Your visit will, I hope, speed circumstances in that direction."

One of the charges had already been dropped, thanks to Crusher and the science team. The timeline was wrong and it would have taken 125 liters of gel to produce the destruction on Deyon III. There was only the release of gel to be dealt with.

Sisko picked up on the need for privacy and stepped back to introduce his crew. "You know Chief O'Brien, of course," he said. Then he indicated the young woman. "This is Lieutenant Dax, Ship's Counselor."

Good choice, Picard decided. He nodded and began his own introductions, for the sake of Dax at least. "Commander William Riker and Counselor Deanna Troi." The counselors took each other's hands warmly as colleagues. Riker offered his hand to O'Brien and finally let loose his neutrality to smile as he greeted his friend.

"Well," Picard said, bringing everyone back to the business at hand, "let's get to it then. Captain, if you would come with me to my Ready Room, I'll explain the situation."

Deanna split off with Dax, one assumed to discuss Bashir's mental and emotional state.

"Captain?" Picard and Sisko both turned to answer, but it was Picard that O'Brien was addressing. "Can I see him?"

Picard took a breath. He was hoping he could get Bashir cleared and out of the brig quickly enough, but what else was O'Brien to do? Sisko was watching for his answer. "Of course," he said finally. "Commander Riker will take you to him." That finally ruffled Riker, who would have to try and explain to O'Brien why Bashir was in a cell. Well, so be it. There was work to be done. "Meet us in the Ready Room with Commander Martin, Number One," he added.

"Yes, sir," Riker replied. He stepped toward the door. "This way, Chief."

* * *

"You're Worf's wife?" Deanna Troi asked as she guided Dax to her office. In truth, Deanna thought she looked too young.

Dax seemed uncomfortable with the question. She'd winced just a bit, and Troi felt a mixture of emotions emanating from her. Trills were always an interesting sensation. "Um, no," she answered. "That was Jadzia, my previous host. I'm Ezri Dax. I don't suppose Julian's mentioned me?"

That explained some of those emotions. Sympathy, love, embarrassment, sadness, and a touch of horror, probably brought on by the symbiont's memory of Jadzia's death. "No, he hasn't talked much about anyone on DS9 really. I'm sorry for the confusion."

"That's alright," Ezri assured her, smiling. "It's still fairly new to me, too." She waited until they were inside the office and then became very focused. Troi could feel the strength in that. Two minds, one purpose. "How is he?"

Very direct. Troi gave her a light smile and invited her to sit. "To be honest, I'm worried about him."

Concern flared up in the young woman. Compassion, sympathy, and perhaps even love. They must have been good friends, perhaps more. But she kept her voice steady. "In what way?"

Troi took a deep breath and tried to order her thoughts. "He's somewhat paranoid and quite pessimistic."

Relief. "I might guess that was to be expected."

Troi nodded. "Me, too, under the circumstances. But he's too calm, too rational, and yet I suspect he's severely depressed."

"Do you think he's insane?" Hopeful skepticism there. Though Troi did not have to sense that from her. She could read it all in the woman's face.

"No," Troi admitted, "unstable perhaps. But his instability isn't mental, at any rate. It's emotional."

"Because of the paranoia and depression?" Dax asked, still skeptical. Troi decided not to take it as a professional slight. "Surely he's been traumatized. And to be honest, everyone _is_ out to get him, it seems." There was the dichotomy of symbiont and host. Dax was still quite serious. Troi felt that, but the girl's face in front of her was smiling.

Troi returned the smile, but mirrored the seriousness within herself. "Not everyone," she said. "But, yes, it would seem to be a natural reaction to the trauma he's faced. And if I were any other counselor, that's exactly what I'd chalk it up to. But I'm a Betazoid counselor, half-Betazoid anyway. I can read emotions, but I can't read his. He doesn't have any." She sighed and stood to pace a few steps. "He does, of course, but not at the right levels. A traumatized person--someone in his position--would have sharp peaks, hitting one extreme and then another. Elation at being found and released. Depression from the memories, the loneliness, the darkness. Fear. But he doesn't have any of those. With the exception of his first recognition of Commander Data, he's flat."

She felt Dax accept that even as the other woman collapsed back against the couch. She didn't say anything, but Troi could sense she was trying to find the right words. Troi didn't wait for her. She hadn't given up on Bashir yet. "What was he like before this?" she asked. "We know he hid his enhancements for several decades. Was he closed off, unapproachable?"

Dax chuckled, sitting up again. "Oh, no," she stated, shaking her head. "Quite the opposite. He's kind, compassionate, and you can read his emotions in his eyes. He's friendly and funny. He has the most comforting bedside manner of any doctor I've met, and I've had eight lifetimes of doctors. He was very open," she added, slipping back into past tense and losing her smile, "and if you ask me, that only helped him hide the enhancements. No one would have suspected he had anything to hide."

Troi sat down again wondering what he had to hide this time. She knew the charges. But she also knew that the captain and Data were acting as his advocates. They believed in him, and she respected their judgement.

"Maybe he just needs familiar surroundings," Dax offered, breaking the silence and the train of Troi's thoughts.

"He is anxious to return to Deep Space Nine," Troi conceded, "but I don't think that would be best just yet. It's not even certain he'll be allowed to."

"Has he been transferred? I mean, now that they know he's alive?"

Deanna hadn't wanted to answer that question. Captain Picard thought Bashir could be cleared. But in the meantime, the truth was still the truth. "He's been charged," Troi told her, tying to deliver the news gently. "He's being held pending an investigation."

* * *

O'Brien stopped right there in the corridor. "The brig?" he asked, raising his voice. "Why the brig?"

Riker looked uncomfortable, but he squared his chin and answered with conviction. "He's being held pending an investigation."

The Chief had to control himself to keep from yelling. They just found him, and he was in the brig. That just wasn't right. "On what grounds?"

Riker was still stiff. "Illegal release of biomemetic gel to an unknown recipient, with some possibly very serious results." He relaxed his shoulders a bit. "How well did you know him, Chief?"

"I still know him," O'Brien corrected. "And I know him very well. He's my best friend. And he would never just release that stuff. He nearly died a few years ago because a Lethean asked to buy some. He wouldn't just give the stuff away."

Riker blew out a breath and started walking again. "I'm not saying he did. Bashir claims it was ordered and that he protested the orders. Captain Picard is standing in as his advocate. If what he says is true, Captain Sisko should be able to clear him of that charge."

That charge. O'Brien hadn't missed that, but he decided to let it go for now. Captain Sisko was talking with Captain Picard. They'd sort things out. For right now, he just wanted to see Julian, especially now that he knew Julian was in the brig. He probably needed a friend, maybe some cheering up.

They rounded a corner and came to the brig. There was a man standing out in the corridor. "Lieutenant Daniels," Riker said, by way of introduction, "our Chief of Security." Then he addressed the lieutenant. "This is Chief Miles O'Brien of Deep Space Nine. He used to be with us though. He's here to visit the doctor."

Daniels nodded, but he pulled Riker off to one side. O'Brien still heard what the man said. "He hasn't slept, sir. He didn't so much as close his eyes the whole night. And he still says he isn't hungry. I half expected him to melt or something." Now O'Brien was starting to worry about just that.

Riker shook his head. "He's not a changeling. Doctor Crusher is certain about that. Just keep an eye on him. If he looks ill, call Doctor Crusher." Not a changeling. But O'Brien still worried, more perhaps now, because it meant his friend wasn't well.

Daniels nodded, and turned back to O'Brien, who was trying to pretend that he hadn't been listening in. "Right this way, Chief," he said.

"Stay as long as you like, Chief," Riker added as he backed toward the door. "But don't leave without saying goodbye. I want to hear about the wife and kids."

O'Brien managed a smile, despite his worries. "I could go on for hours," he warned playfully. Riker smiled, too, and then left. O'Brien followed Daniels through the door into a very dark holding area. Daniels pulled him forward until the door closed behind him, shutting out what light there was from the outer room. There were several cells, and none of them seemed to be in use.

"Give your eyes a minute to adjust," Daniels told him. "He's in cell three."

"Why is it so dark?" O'Brien asked.

"Miles?" Julian's voice.

"He can't take the light," Daniels explained. "It's not nearly as dark as it was yesterday though. Straight ahead." He backed away, O'Brien assumed, because the door opened again. Once it closed, leaving him alone with Julian, O'Brien let his eyes start to adjust as he stepped cautiously forward into the darkness. How could anyone tell that Julian hadn't slept? It was too dark to see.

"You'll want to stop now," Julian told him. "Another two steps and you'll hit the forcefield."

"I'd say it's good to see you," O'Brien told him, stopping as advised, "but I can't see you just yet."

"It's not _that_ dark," Julian teased. "I can see you."

O'Brien was starting to see him, too. With each second, his eyes registered more details. It wasn't really that dark after all. No darker than night on the station. It was just the contrast from the brightly lit corridor. Julian was sitting on one of the benches in the cell. He wasn't in uniform. O'Brien remember coming to see Julian after his escape from the Jem'Hadar camp. He'd teased him and upset him. He decided this time it was better to be serious. Besides, he felt serious. This time he had known Julian was gone. He had thought he was dead, and now he was back. "I've missed you," was all he finally said.

Julian's voice was quiet when he answered. "Me, too."

It was hard seeing him in the cell. O'Brien wanted to hug him--or at least to shake his hand. He wanted to know for sure that his friend was real. Six months without him had been hard. "I wish I could say I've come to get you out of here."

Julian stood up from the bench and walked toward the unlit forcefield. "It will either happen or it won't," he replied, sitting down on the floor. "I know there isn't a chair, but I'd feel better if you sat. It's too formal with both of us standing there. How are you? How are Keiko and the kids? Did she throw Chester out yet?"

O'Brien grinned and sat down cross-legged on the floor. "The kids won't let her," he answered, glad to move on to more pleasant areas of conversation. "Molly is growing like a weed, and Yoshi is a handful. Keiko says he's into everything he can get his hands on."

"The 'terrible twos' strike again," Julian joked lightly.

He just didn't seem like his usual self, though O'Brien wasn't sure what he expected. It was bad enough he'd been gone for six months--he still wasn't sure just where, though it was someplace dark from the looks of things. But now he was in a cell. What was there to be overly cheerful about? "Where were you, Julian?"

"Beyat system, as near as I can figure," Julian replied. "In a cave. That's why it's dark. I was marooned there."

O'Brien felt something familiar about that. He still had his memories of the Agrathi prison. It wasn't a cave, but it had its similarities. Rock walls, dirt floor. No furniture or amenities. Of course, caves were also dark and wet and usually contained jagged stalactites and stalagmites. There could also be bats or other subterranean creatures. All in all, not a pleasant place to live. "How did you survive six months there?"

"They left me a replicator," he answered. O'Brien watched him as he spoke. He was also sitting with his legs crossed. His head was down as if he were looking at his shoes. "I wasn't hungry until just toward the end."

O'Brien wondered what happened then, but there was something more important to ask since the subject of food had been brought up. "Are you hungry now? The Security Chief said you weren't eating. Is it because you're in the cell?"

Bashir sighed and met O'Brien's eyes. "It's because I'm not hungry. Please Miles, I have enough counseling with Deanna Troi."

O'Brien didn't want to drop it. He wanted to help his friend, even if his friend couldn't see he needed the help. But he knew he couldn't push too hard either. "I remember you nagging me a bit when our places were reversed."

Bashir's eyes narrowed a bit. "You weren't in a cell."

O'Brien smiled lightly, nodding his agreement. "No, but I was relieved of duty. I think the advice works either way. You give good advice, you know. I'll have some breakfast with you, if you like."

Bashir looked down again. "Maybe later."

* * *

Captain Sisko sat in a chair just opposite Captain Picard. It was a comfortable chair, but he didn't feel comfortable in it. He was just reading over the charge on which Bashir was being held. Somewhere in the back of his mind, ever since Bashir had warned him, Sisko had been expecting the gel to come back and haunt him. He'd always thought he'd be prepared to take the consequences though. He hadn't expected Bashir to have to pay for it. He couldn't let Bashir take the blame, so he had to say something, but he had to be careful. He shook his head and set the PADD back on Picard's desk. "I ordered it," he stated, not letting his feelings show. There was still a lot riding on what he said here.

Picard stared at him silently for a moment. "Why?" he asked finally. "Do you even know who it was given to?"

"I had orders from Starfleet Command," Sisko told him, ignoring the second question. "I showed the orders to Doctor Bashir and ordered that he carry them out."

"Why would Starfleet Command issue the release of so much gel?" Picard asked.

Sisko stood. "Captain, I am sorry that I cannot answer all of your questions. It was, and continues to be, a very delicate matter which could determine the outcome of this war. I can tell you that Bashir released the gel only under orders. I can tell you that he demanded to see the orders in writing and that he formally protested the orders before carrying them out at my insistence. I cannot, however, divulge the details of those orders. His protest should be a matter of record."

Picard's jaw stiffened, but he stood, too. "There is no record of his protest. He claims it was deleted. Can you officially verify that the protest was recorded?"

Deleted. Perhaps Kira was right and it was Section 31. "I read it myself and made sure it was filed. He's being framed."

Picard nodded his agreement. "It would seem so. According to Lieutenant Commander Martin, he's already been convicted in absentia for it. I didn't recognize any of the names on the official record of the court martial, however. I can't find a record of them with Starfleet Command."

* * *

Just then the chime sounded. _Just the man we need to see_, Picard thought. "Come," he ordered. The door opened to reveal Commander Riker and Martin. "Any word from Data?" Picard asked Riker before getting down to business.

"He's docking as we speak," Riker replied, letting the door shut behind him.

Good. Picard didn't like the implications to the big picture, but things were looking up for Bashir. Martin took one look at Sisko and his face grew a degree or two more pale. "Captain Sisko, I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Commander Martin," Picard said, making introductions, "Internal Affairs. Captain Sisko of Deep Space Nine and the USS _Defiant_."

"It's an honor to meet you, Captain," Martin offered his hand and smiled warmly.

Picard leaned forward, bracing his arms against the desk. "Commander, Captain Sisko has just confirmed the orders releasing the gel and Doctor Bashir's protest. Our science team has already ruled out any other charges as well. I'm going to release Bashir and recommend him for duty as soon as he is well. Furthermore, I'm going to contact Admiral Necheyev and request that she investigate this trumped up court martial and those presiding. Bashir's record will be cleared. But I'm not so sure about yours."

Riker, for his part, hid well his crestfallen expression, but Picard had known him long enough to pick up such subtleties. Martin tried hard to look confused. "I don't know what you mean, Captain?"

The door chimed again. Data. "Come."

Data had come straight from the shuttle apparently as there was mud on his trousers. He had changed his shoes however, one would assume to spare the floors. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at finding such an audience. "Captain," he offered Sisko in greeting. He turned next to Picard. "I have found something interesting," he said. "If I could please be indulged in a demonstration?"

Picard nodded. This could very well be interesting.

"I would ask please," Data began, speaking to the group, "if everyone in this room would state his name and rank for the record. Computer, begin recording."

"Working," the computer intoned.

Picard started, since it was his ship and he was the ranking officer. "Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship _Enterprise_." He nodded to Riker. It was his ship, too.

"Commander William T. Riker, First Officer, USS _Enterprise_."

Data would have been next, but he was running things, so he deferred to Sisko.

"Captain Benjamin Sisko, USS _Defiant_ and Starbase Deep Space Nine."

Picard noticed that Data was moving around the room as each person spoke, coming to Martin's side when it was his turn to speak.

Martin watched Data carefully as he spoke. "Lieutenant Commander Peter Martin, Starfleet Internal Affairs."

Data nodded. "Lieutenant Commander Data, Second Officer, USS _Enterprise_." He did not, however, ask the computer to stop recording. He was carrying a bag and he opened it now, drawing out a muddied PADD. Martin's face paled as Data pressed one of the PADD's controls. A voice began to emanate from it. The voice was familiar.

"_Welcome to your new home_," the voice said. "_I can't recommend the accommodations, but you betrayed us. There's a replicator, if you can find it. It will only produce one thing. You'll just have to live with that. I'm sure you can find water if you try hard. You asked once, what would have happened if we didn't find you trustworthy. I admit, this is more creative than we usually get, but you get the general idea. You're an intelligent man, after all_."

"Computer," Data ordered, "end recording."

"Record complete."

"Begin a comparative analysis of all voice patterns."

"Working."

All eyes were on Martin. They didn't need the computer to tell them it was him. Bashir had been framed. Deleted records and sham courts martial didn't matter. Not now. He had some evidence on his side. Martin tried to move away, but Data blocked him.

"I don't know what you are getting at," Martin held.

"Analysis complete," the computer announced.

Riker and Picard both looked at the screen where the data was projected. But Sisko and Data both had their eyes locked onto Martin. Data was as serene and passionless as a Vulcan. Sisko's jaws were clenched tight and his eyes burned like they were about to boil.

"One match." The data was unmistakable. A perfect match.

"You're Sloan?!" Sisko accused, barely controlling his fury. Apparently, he'd heard about Section 31, too.

Martin--or Sloan--regained his color and his confidence. "Sometimes," he replied with a hint of arrogance.

"Commander Riker," Picard ordered, "will you please escort Mr. Sloan to the brig, and Doctor Bashir out of it?"

If Riker was angry at having chosen the wrong villain, he didn't show it. "I'd be happy to, sir." He took Sloan's arm.

"I took the liberty of assigning two security officers outside the door," Data added.

_Good thinking_, Picard thought. They might be needed. "Mr. Data," Picard said, nodding toward the PADD. "Please put that in a secure location. I don't want it to disappear as easily as Doctor Bashir's protest."

Data nodded. "Of course, sir."

* * *

Bashir was still sitting on the floor of the cell just opposite Chief O'Brien when the doors opened. He had relaxed somewhat in his friend's presence, though he still felt entirely too keyed up. He should have been exhausted from lack of sleep. And given the lack of entertainment in the brig, he should have been bored enough to sleep the night before. But his mind had refused to quiet down. There was so much to think about, so much to calculate, to try and anticipate, that he couldn't even manage to keep his eyes closed for more than a few seconds. Sleep never came.

Both he and the Chief stood up when the three men walked into the room. Bashir didn't recognize one of them except to know who it wasn't. He wasn't Dolson. The other men were Commander Riker and Bashir's personal nemesis, Sloan. Sloan held his head high and carried a defiant look in his eye--or at least Bashir imagined that defiance--as Riker led him into one of the cells to Bashir's right. Data must have found the PADD.

"Sorry about the light, Doctor," the third man called as he activated the forcefield. Bashir squinted against the sudden brightness around Sloan's cell.

"He can beam out of there, you know," Bashir warned them.

Sloan glared at him, and Bashir didn't have to guess about that, lit as he was by the lights. Sloan said nothing and probably would continue to say nothing. It was almost anti-climactic. Though Bashir knew better than to hope for climactic. Life just didn't work that way.

"He beamed in just last night," Bashir added, watching Sloan, not the man to whom he was speaking.

"What's going on?" O'Brien whispered.

"They've arrested Sloan," Bashir whispered back. "He's the one who had me marooned."

Riker was walking toward them now. "Release the doctor," he ordered the other man.

Almost instantly the constant tingle that had reminded him of the forcefield's presence vanished. Bashir felt the lack of it like a sudden gust of wind, like the door opening on his cell in Block 11. He reached one foot over the line to step down and suddenly felt dizzy. He had to hold the wall to keep from falling over. O'Brien saw that and caught him by the other arm. "I could use that breakfast now," Julian teased, trying to dispel any undue concern. However he managed it, he was across the line, full-body into freedom. And back in the fire.

"What you could use," O'Brien joined in with a grin, "is a haircut."

"One of those, too."

"Perhaps you should go to Sickbay, sir," the third man suggested.

"I'll be fine," Bashir told him. "Am I free to return to my quarters, or better yet to DS9?"

"Quarters," Riker replied. "DS9 is up to Counselor Troi and Doctor Crusher. The lights will be dimmed in the corridors along your path. If you see light, you'll know you're going the wrong way."

"Thank you," Bashir told him, not sensing now the deep-seated hostility the man had previously radiated. He turned to leave with the Chief, thankful to find that the lighting in the corridor was actually darker than the room he was in.

"And Doctor," Riker called before he made it through the door. Bashir turned and waited. Riker kept his back straight, his shoulders squared, and his hands behind his back. When he did speak, it was slow and deliberate, as if the words were hard for him."I apologize for the cell. I allowed myself to give in to assumptions, which is just what Mr. Sloan was counting on. You were right about that. I assumed you were guilty and expected you to have to prove otherwise. I am sorry."

Bashir wasn't sure if Riker now expected forgiveness or not. He also wasn't sure if he was willing to grant forgiveness or not. So he offered something more abstract. "Apology accepted."

O'Brien had thought Julian would be relieved to have been released, or happy, or something. But he was no different. Except that now he was hungry. They had a large breakfast in Bashir's guest quarters. It was large in that it had many different dishes. For Julian, the portions were still small. Still he seemed to be enjoying what he had. Scrambled eggs, bacon, scones. While they ate, O'Brien told Julian about what had happened back in the Bajoran sector while he was gone. Or at least he told him the good things. Ezri and Worf had returned unharmed for the most part. Damar was leading a rebellion against the Dominion on Cardassia. Julian told O'Brien about Sloan, and the Chief found himself with no appetite. "How'd you get out?" he asked after Julian had come back around to the end of the story: the cave.

"I converted the replicator into a transmitter and transmitted a low-level pulse which Data would hear."

He said it so easily that it almost sounded an easy thing to do. But O'Brien was an engineer and he knew better. It was just barely possible, but very difficult, and it would render the replicator useless as a source of anything else. Those must have been some extension courses. And to do it in the dark, no less. Still, that didn't explain everything. "How did you know he'd be anywhere nearby to receive the signal."

Julian didn't even bother to look up from his plate. "I didn't," he said, before taking another bite of his eggs. "I just chanced it. I would have died in the cave if I never tried it, or I would have died in the cave if I tried it to no avail. The difference was only a matter of decades."

"Sisko to O'Brien," O'Brien's comm badge chirped and Sisko's voice emanated from it.

The chief tapped his badge to acknowledge the call. "O'Brien here, sir."

"We just got orders, Chief," Sisko said. "We're leaving. Meet Dax and Counselor Troi in Transporter Room Three to prep the _Defiant_."

"Julian's not coming with us?" O'Brien asked, looking across the table at his friend. Julian had frozen as soon as the call came in. He still held his fork halfway to the now empty plate before him.

"Not just yet," Sisko replied. "Sisko out."

Bashir's fork dropped to the table. "It's not a surprise, Miles. I have to be checked out. As you already mentioned, I relieved you of duty until you'd had time to adjust. It's the same with me."

"Wouldn't you adjust better back on DS9 with us?" O'Brien argued.

"I think so," Julian admitted, "but it's not my decision to make."

"Counselor Troi and Doctor Crusher," O'Brien conceded, remembering what Riker had said. "Well, it could be worse. The _Enterprise_ has a great crew. Try and enjoy yourself. We'll see you again soon."

"Of course," Bashir said, still not sounding either displeased or pleased at the prospects.

"I guess Deanna's going to visit Worf while we prepare the ship," O'Brien surmised aloud. "I'd like to see Data, myself. You know, he introduced Keiko and me."

Julian allowed a smile. "He told me. Perhaps he can visit while you prepare the ship, too."

That wasn't a bad idea. "I'll ask him." The chief stood up to leave. "I'll see ya, Julian. Call me once in awhile."

"Send my love to everyone," Bashir said. He stood as well and came around the table. He extended his hand and O'Brien shook it.

"Oh hell," he said, pulling Bashir toward him for a hug. "Don't ever do that to us again," he said. When he let him go, O'Brien could see that he shocked the younger man quite thoroughly with his unaccustomed show of sincerity. O'Brien grinned. His friend was real and he was alive.

"I'll try," was all Julian said, when he could finally speak.

"See ya around, Julian."

* * *

Bashir waited for him to leave and then cleared the table. With that squared away, he laid himself down on the couch and tried to close his eyes. Sisko was leaving. There was no Troi. She'd be on the _Defiant_. No visitors--he hoped. He could finally just let himself relax, even if it was only for an hour. Maybe now he could sleep.

The door chimed and Bashir kicked the arm of the couch with one foot at the intrusion during his short respite. He sat up and took a deep breath to calm himself. If it was the captain or Crusher, he'd still have to be on guard. "Come in," he said finally, feeling the walls come up around him, protecting him, closing him in.

The door opened and allowed light to spill in through the door. It closed again and Bashir could see who had entered. The walls tumbled away.

* * *

Neither one said anything at first. Sisko looked around him, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After a few minutes, he could see Julian standing by the couch. He wondered why he didn't say anything. And he wondered about the lights. "Mind if I turn up the lights?" Sisko finally asked.

"No!" Bashir nearly shouted in panic. Sisko felt he was getting a glimpse of why Troi wanted him to remain on the _Enterprise_ for a time. When he spoke again, he was decidedly calmer. "It hurts my eyes," he explained.

Just where had he been? Sisko wondered. And he chided himself for not asking Captain Picard when he'd had the chance. Either Sloan did something to his eyes, or he'd been in a very dark place these last six months. Sisko just hoped he still knew the man. He didn't want to find him broken or beyond redemption. Still, he was alive, and that was something. He could recover from this, whatever it was. He couldn't recover from being dead.

The silence was deafening, and having it there in the darkness only exacerbated the awkwardness between them. _A hello would be nice_, Sisko thought. So he decided he should step forward and offer one. "It's good to see you, Julian."

"Is it?" the younger man asked. His tone was plain and quiet, carrying no hint of what he meant by such a question.

Sisko decided to take it literally until Bashir gave him any reason to do otherwise. "Of course it is. We thought you were dead. We were all concerned, of course, happy but concerned, when we heard--"

"Not all," Bashir said slowly, hitting the sharp 't' between the words particularly hard.

This time there was no mistaking the touch of venom in Bashir's quiet British accent. Sisko didn't understand it, but continuing to take Bashir literally, he understood that it was directed at himself. "I _was_ concerned," he held.

"I never even crossed your mind." That was harsh and deliberate. Something was building and Sisko was sure he wouldn't like it.

He couldn't find any words. What had drawn Bashir to that conclusion? What had made him think that Sisko hated him? He knew that there was a distance between them before he'd left, but they'd managed to bridge it once in awhile. Things weren't like they were before the war, but there was a war, after all. It got in the way of such things, but it never, ever made Sisko stop caring about his crew, and that included Bashir.

"Julian," he tried, stepping forward.

Bashir backed away, into the couch. "Don't call me that," he ordered, stumbling around the furniture to keep the distance between himself and Sisko.

This was not at all what Sisko had expected. Forgetting diplomacy, or giving up on it, Sisko tried asking him outright, "What's wrong?"

* * *

"You are!" Bashir accused. "You're wrong." The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. Images and memories and feelings were all swirling around in his head in a dizzying manner. Only Sisko was steady. Sisko. The reason for it all.

Sisko stood still, only a meter from the door. Bashir could see him so clearly. He didn't understand. He still didn't see what he had done. How could he? He had to think first. He had to think about one man when the whole war was distracting him. He couldn't do that and so he couldn't understand. Sisko's voice was a whisper when he spoke again. "What did he do to you?"

"He who?" Bashir knew who, but the blame was misplaced. "_You_ did this to me. Sloan was only being who he is, doing what he does. He could have killed me, but he didn't, so I guess you _could_ say he was even being lenient. But if it hadn't been for you, he wouldn't have done anything at all."

Even as he said it, he never thought he'd stand up in defense of Sloan, but there it was. Sloan had only behaved according to his nature. It was Sisko who had changed his nature. It was Sisko who had betrayed him, finally tearing down the pillars of everything he had believed in. Because he had believed in Sisko. "_You're_ the reason this happened. _You!_" he accused, stepping forward and pointing his finger at his former commanding officer. He could barely control his own body. It was as if something inside him was propelling him forward. "You ordered it." His voice dropped back. "You want to know what they did to me? Clinically, it's called psychological torture. I may have had worse, but it's still torture. They played with my sense of reality, made me think that everyone was turning against me, made me question my own sanity and loyalty, all without sleep or food. And you ordered me to go with them. My torturers! Even after the Romulan incident!"

The anger had built up in him like a ball of fire in his chest. He could feel it physically, burning into his ribs and lungs.

They were face to face now. "I thought--" Sisko stammered, stepping back and away from the doctor closing in on him.

Bashir didn't give him time to finish. "You didn't think!" he screamed. His arms pushed out with the words and Sisko went flying into the bulkhead a few feet behind him. Having used up that burst of energy, he could no longer move.

Sisko sat up, rubbing his head where he'd hit the wall, and Bashir just stood shaking. His voice was softer, but no less calm. "You certainly didn't think about me. You wanted proof. You wanted evidence. 'Something tangible,' you said. I didn't matter to you at all." It was almost hard to breathe. It was certainly hard to stand, but he couldn't move his legs. "There were hundreds of them. Did you think I could just undo them like that? They've been doing this for two centuries or more. Did you expect me to just waltz in and expose them and cause their downfall?"

Sisko didn't answer. He couldn't, not without saying that that was exactly what he thought, if he thought at all. "They could have made me disappear before," Bashir continued. "They certainly had the ability. They kidnapped me right off the station without so much as a trace. But you thought I could bring them down single-handedly."

"I had faith in you," Sisko tried to say, but it came out only just above a whisper. Even in the dim light, his eyes showed fear.

"And _what_ do you think _that_ is worth?" Bashir threw back in anger. "Did you think they would just let me in?"

Sisko's mouth was open, as if he would speak, but he said nothing. He just stared in wonder and confusion back at Bashir, who continued to berate him. For so many years, he had kept so much in. He forgot to even worry about the Betazoid and what she would sense from him. Sisko had to be made to listen. "I had to prove myself to them, why I'd had such a change of heart. I couldn't do what they wanted me to do. I couldn't become one of them. I couldn't be like them. Like you. I refused, worked against them. For that they sent me away to that god-forsaken cave. Six months I was alone, with not one single person to speak to. The only animals were blind little fish in the stream I drank from. And that's all your fault."

* * *

Sisko shook his head, not really denying what Julian was saying, but out of shock and a sudden sense of guilt. This is not how he imagined things at all. He'd never seen Bashir so angry, never seen him lose his temper. Not like this. And he would have bet the war that Julian would never strike him. But it had happened, and he had the bruises to show for it. He couldn't bring himself to strike back, though.

He wanted to deny what Bashir was saying, but he couldn't find the words to make it at least some of it true. He hadn't thought about what had happened as torture. He hadn't thought about what it must have been like for Bashir. There was only the mystery, the subversive group within Starfleet, kidnaping Starfleet officers. Kidnaping Bashir. He didn't see it that way before. He saw Bashir as an opportunity, not as a victim. He saw him as strong, not as vulnerable. He thought of Julian's enhancements, of his genius, and assumed he could outsmart Sloan. But it wasn't just Sloan. It was a whole group that had been in existence for centuries.

"You only think of yourself," Bashir went on. It was like he was a flood that couldn't be held back. His eyes were wide with anger and his hands shook at his sides. "You think you, the almighty Emissary, alone can save the Bajorans. You think you're fighting the war all by yourself. It's easy for you to give orders. You don't have to suffer the consequences like the rest of us. I couldn't sleep for weeks. I had nightmares about what they'd do to me, what they'd already done. You ordered me to go back to them, and I was willing to obey because I believed in you! I believed that you would be there for me, somehow. That you wouldn't order me into it and then just leave me to die out there. But you didn't even stay. Jadzia died and you ran away because it was too much for you! For you!" he repeated, incredulousness seeping in his tone. "You weren't captured by the Jem'Hadar. You weren't replaced. You weren't singled out by the Dominion. You weren't kidnapped by your own government. You weren't manipulated into betraying an ally. And it was too much for you?!"

He said it with such venom, such hatred. Bashir's face was contorted like a mask of pure evil. Sisko shook his head, and that caused the pain in the back of his skull to flare up. "I didn't run away," he argued in his own defense. He had to raise his voice to match the intensity in the room that Julian had caused. Was he even Julian anymore? "I had to think, to find a way to contact the Prophets."

"For three months?!" Bashir cried, and Sisko jerked back involuntarily in fear at his reaction. But Julian didn't touch him; he didn't even try. He actually turned away, throwing his hands up in wonder. "We were dying out there, and you," he turned back, "were sitting home cleaning clams! And not even a word from you! We didn't know if you were even coming back! They could have come for me at any time. And you wouldn't have even known I was gone."

Sisko wanted to deny the doctor's words, but he couldn't. It was true. He'd been so wrapped in his own despair, not just about Jadzia, but about the Prophets and the Pagh Wraiths, that it had blocked out everything else. In those three months, he'd not once thought about the war, not about the crew, not about his orders to Julian. He hadn't thought about those orders at all really, not until Kira had suggested Section 31 after Bashir was found alive.

Bashir was perhaps guilty of blowing it out of proportion, but he was right. And considering that he'd only been rescued two days before and he was seriously traumatized--that much was obvious--Sisko could understand the blowing it out of proportion.

"I trusted you," Bashir said, out of breath, but seeming to calm down. "But you're no better than Sloan. You're worse."

Sisko wouldn't fight him back, and he understood what was happening with Julian, but he was going too far. "I am not like Sloan," he held, his voice full and firm. This had to end. "I am definitely not worse."

Bashir shook his head and squatted down until he was eye-level with Sisko. "I know," he said, full of contempt. It didn't sound like he was agreeing. It sounded conspiratorial. He continued, dropping his voice. "They told me. They told me so I would know the truth and stop trusting you. I might not have believed them before, but I know it's true."

_Know what's true?_ Sisko thought. He didn't say it. He was afraid he already knew.

Bashir bent closer to his ear and whispered, "I know why the Romulans joined the war."

Now Sisko found it hard to breathe. Not that. No one was supposed to know about that. If it got out, the Romulans would break the alliance. The war would be lost. And it wouldn't be just self-respect that Sisko had lost. He shook his head, unable to speak at the horror playing in his mind.

"Did you even know where that gel was going?" Bashir asked, still whispering, no longer shaking. He had the power now, as if he were the captain and Sisko the lieutenant. "Did you even bother to find out who was getting it after you ordered me to deliver it to the cargo bay?"

Sisko remembered Julian's warnings that day. He could hear them echoing again in his head. '_In the wrong hands, it could be used to make biogenic weapons, or for illegal replication experiments, or to develop organic explosives. . . .'_

"_They_ got it," Bashir told him. "The Dominion. _Eighty-five_ liters. And with it they wiped out an entire world."

The breath ripped itself from Sisko's lungs. The Dominion? A world? He tried to stand, but his legs were rubber; they wouldn't hold him. He braced himself on his arms as Bashir continued to whisper in his ear. "Six million, five hundred twenty-one thousand, three hundred and seventy two people. Every animal, every plant. Nothing lives on Deyon III. And you have yourself to thank for that."

Sisko felt the bile rising up in his throat. Six million. A whole world. Dead. Because of what he'd done. He couldn't even see Bashir anymore, but he felt him back away.

Bashir's voice was quieter, calm and cold when he spoke again. "I trusted you once," the younger man said, chastising himself. The fire within him had died down. "I respected you. I looked up to you, admired you. I believed you when you said it was our job to make sure we never had to find out what would happen if we were pushed too far, whether we'd lose everything we stood for, all our principles. And then you threw them all away. You became like Sloan and then you became like the Dominion. You're a murderer and a liar. I expect as much from Garak; it's in his nature. But not from you."

Sisko looked up at him, saw him turn away and face the viewports and the stars beyond. "There's Section 31," he continued "and there's you. There's the Dominion and the Cardassians, too. There's not a place to stand between you. There's nothing left." His voice was hollow. "The universe is destroying itself. We can't let the Dominion win, but we'll lose ourselves if we win. We've already lost, if you're any judge. There's nothing left worth fighting for, worth living for, not really.

"I used to believe that we were better, that we believed in things and upheld those things, good things. But we don't, do we? We say we do and then we throw them away. I had faith in you. I've no faith left. It's all gone. You killed it when you killed those people."

He didn't say anything else, and he didn't turn back from the viewports. Sisko assumed then that he was finished. His head and shoulders didn't hurt near as much as the knot twisted into his stomach. He struggled to his feet. Fortunately, the door wasn't far. He thought about saying good-bye, but how could he do that now? No words were appropriate. Sisko left him behind, hoping that Bashir could get help. He needed help. He'd been broken, and Sisko realized now that it was himself, not the Dominion, not Sloan, but himself who had accomplished it. He had betrayed the trust Bashir had in him.

And he had crossed the line. He had sold his soul to get the Romulans into the war. It was a price he was willing to pay. But he hadn't read the fine print. He had only thought of the cost to himself. He had been angry to find out Garak had placed a bomb on Senator Vreenak's shuttle. He'd called him a murderer. But he'd done worse, and millions were dead.

Several _Enterprise_ crewmembers eyed him curiously as he lurched down the corridors, holding the wall for support. He didn't care. He didn't even see them. He found the transporter room almost by accident. He managed to straighten himself up before he got to the door though. He couldn't explain to anyone what was wrong. Section 31 knew, but they hadn't made it public yet. They had told Bashir, but he had also said that the Dominion can't win the war. He wouldn't tell. Even traumatized and half-crazed, he was smart enough to know the consequences of that. He had wanted to punish Sisko. He wouldn't make the whole quadrant pay for it. So Sisko had to hide it, just like he'd hid it for the last year and a half. No one could know. Not about the gel and not about Bashir.

He stopped just outside the door to the transporter room and instead made his way to a turbolift. "Sickbay," he ordered.

"What happened to you, Captain?" the nurse asked when he walked in. She was a young woman of Asian ethnicity. She smiled brightly as she worked on his bruises.

"I backed into a bulkhead," Sisko lied. He didn't want anyone to think that Bashir was violent. If they thought he was, he might be institutionalized, which in Bashir's mind would likely be no different than prison. And he would only blame Sisko for that as well. Besides, Sisko felt he was a special case to Bashir, the one person he'd really lash out at. O'Brien hadn't sounded stressed or fearful when he'd called, and he'd been visiting Bashir since he arrived on the ship. And Picard or Troi would have informed him if he were had displayed violent behavior with them. No, there was no point in slowing down Julian's recovery by accusations of violence.

The nurse chuckled. "How did you manage that?" She finished tending his head and moved on to his shoulder.

"The corridors were dimmed for Doctor Bashir."

"Oh," she nodded. "That explains it. That shouldn't last too long though. Doctor Crusher estimates another three days before he's up to normal lighting. All done."

"So it's not permanent then?" Sisko asked as she put away her instruments.

She helped him pull his shirt back over his shoulder. "No," she assured him. "He was just in the dark too long. It's temporary."

"Thank you." Sisko picked up his jacket. "I need to get back to my ship. Take care of him for us."

Her smile widened and her eyes twinkled. "We will." It was so unusual to see such a bright face these days. How did she manage when there was a war going on?

Sisko nodded and left her and Sickbay. O'Brien and Dax were waiting for him when he transported back to the _Defiant_. Neither of them looked particularly happy at leaving Bashir behind. Troi was there, too, but she was waiting to transport back to the _Enterprise_.

* * *

Bashir waited for him to leave before he turned around again. His quarters were empty. "Computer," he ordered softly, "no visitors. Where is Counselor Troi?"

"Counselor Troi is not on aboard," the computer replied.

Bashir let out a long breath and dropped himself onto the couch. He covered his face in his hands and tried to think just how he'd let things get so out of control. He'd actually hit Sisko. He hit his commanding officer. What if Sisko didn't let him back on DS9? And it couldn't be good if Troi should find out, or anyone else for that matter. He had to get control before she arrived. Sisko's presence had caused him to crack. All the things he'd thought in the last month, or longer, had come rushing back to the fore. All the hurt, the anger, the betrayal, not just of himself, but of all he believed. Sisko had lied, cheated, fabricated evidence, and participated in murder so that the Romulans would join the war and die by the thousands fighting the Dominion.

Of course, it was good to have another ally, but Captain Sisko didn't have the right to choose for a whole civilization like that. If they ever found out what he did, with Garak's help, they'd pull out and perhaps sign a separate peace with the Dominion. The Federation-Klingon alliance would lose the war and the Alpha Quadrant would be enslaved. Bashir wished Sloan had never told him these things. Or he wished Sisko had told him they weren't true. Sisko had lied and Sloan had told the truth.

He wasn't able to think when Sisko was here. Everything had just swirled and boiled inside him. But now, he was calm and able to think things through. But he knew even that would show to the Betazoid. He had to get past it, push it down, and concentrate on something else. He went back to the game. He started with the replicator. It was easy. He'd already done a portable unit for real. This was larger, but the basic components were still the same. It took an hour, but by then he'd found his balance. He even thought he could sleep.

Troi did come though, as he knew she would. She asked him about his feelings now that he'd seen his friends. He answered with what she wanted to hear. It was good to see them again. He'd missed them. He regretted not seeing Dax or Kira. It was all true, if one discounted Sisko. And he did. He had put Sisko out of his mind so that his thoughts and emotions wouldn't be polluted by the thought of him. Without Sisko, there as balance.

And Troi didn't bring him up, which led Bashir to believe that Sisko hadn't mentioned the incident to her. All the easier then to not think of him.

"Starfleet Medical has concluded the investigation of your identity," Troi said, finally changing the subject. Or maybe she was just changing tactics. "The body they found has been identified."

"Who was he?" Bashir asked, positive that she would not give his own name.

"His name was Edoard Hussein," she replied. "He disappeared eight months ago from his business on New Sidney. He went to lunch and didn't return. He left a wife and three children."

"Do we know why?" Bashir asked. There was a knot in his stomach, and he hoped the man wasn't killed just for his resemblance to himself.

"He was a weapons manufacturer," Troi explained. "Starfleet Intelligence had suspected him of leaking secrets to the Dominion. They began an investigation almost a year ago. In fact, they thought he had caught on to them and fled."

So it wasn't a tragedy then. Not for the man anyway. It was just a fortunate coincidence in Section 31's perspective. A traitor was found, picked up, convicted, and executed. And oh, look! He looks a bit like out good friend the doctor! Two birds, one stone. "So that's done then," Bashir concluded with a measure of relief if not joy. "I'm me and I'm not a criminal. Perhaps, then, I can be a doctor again."

Troi smiled at him. "You're already a doctor."

He wasn't going to let her off with friendly smiles and platitudes. "You know what I mean."

She did; her smile faded. She looked him in the eye. "I don't think you're ready," she admitted. Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled again. "You can't even see yet."

True enough. One needed eyes and plenty of light to properly treat patients. "When I can see," he asked, knowing that his lack of light tolerance was really just an easy way out for her, "will you reevaluate your assessment?"

She matched his seriousness: one healer to another. "I'm always reevaluating my assessment."

He sighed and stood up. She was still avoiding the issue. "My sight isn't the problem," he said, walking a little way away. "I can handle whatever you have to say."

"But would it help?" Troi challenged, much to his surprise. "If I told you my assessment, would it help you? Or would you only to try and 'fix' whatever you think I think is wrong?"

He had to give her credit. Either her Betazoid half was stronger than he'd supposed or she had a fair sense of judgment beyond her empathic abilities. He was sure she had sensed nothing emotional to draw that conclusion. "I want my life back," he repeated, still not willing to break down for her, "and that doesn't mean just pacifying you. I would not want a psychologically deficient doctor working under me, treating patients. And I wouldn't dare to put people at risk if I thought I was a danger to them. I understand that." He felt his face flush and was glad for the relative darkness. He turned away from her. "I am a doctor," he added in a whisper, now facing the viewports and the distant stars beyond. "I will do no harm."

"I believe you." Her voice was soft, though not a whisper. He heard her take a deep breath and then she was beside him at the viewports. "I am concerned," she admitted now. "I can't sense you. Not as I should."

He faced her, raising an eyebrow. "Because of you or because of me?"

She smiled a little but didn't turn her head. "I sense everyone else, so it must be you."

Bashir faced the stars again. "I see," he said. He knew this point was going to come. Still, he had hoped to avoid it. Hell, he had hoped for a non-empathic counselor altogether. But here it was, and he had planned for it. "I have a theory about that."

"Oh?"

"Equilibrium." It was simple and made a lot of sense the way he saw it. But there was often a gap between theory and practice.

"Equilibrium?" she repeated, turning to look at him. She seemed genuinely interested. There was no hint of smile, no patronization or amusement. She was willing to hear him out.

"Everything is equal," he explained, "in the end. Any one thing has the potential to be good or bad or neutral, or any degree therein. Should I be ecstatic at my rescue, for instance? Yes, I'm rescued, out of the cave and the damp and the cold. I'm even beginning to see again. But I'm also in danger again, as you saw. They tried to frame me. There's still a war on, too. In the cave, I was miserable, but at least I was safe. Happiness is canceled out by the lack of security, leaving nothing but a neutral state. It's either that or exaggerated mood swings. Mood swings are a waste of energy and a loss of control. They quite often do more harm than good. So I chose neutrality. I chose control."

She didn't say anything, though she hadn't really changed her expression either.

"Let me give you an example you can perhaps relate to, with only one emotion and one object. Fear and changelings. We're all paranoid that they're hiding around us, deceiving us, being something other than themselves. They can be the floor you stand on, the chair you sit in, the blanket with which you cover yourself at night. They can be your shoes, you clothes, or even your best friend. You can't tell. Anything in this room, or anyone on this ship, could be a changeling and we wouldn't know it until that changeling slipped up.

"So what do we do?" he continued. "Do we live our lives in fear, hiding under the bed that could very well be a changeling? Do we cower and break out into cold sweats? I'm terrified of them, you know, except for Odo. There was one, she did things to me that I wouldn't wish on Sloan. I had nightmares for months on end. But I couldn't function if I let that define my life. If everything holds the same potential for fear--the bed, the floor, the wall--then there's no more fear in one place or circumstance than in another. It equals out, normalizes, leaving only life behind. It's either that or madness. So I don't act afraid and you don't sense fear."

She still said nothing, though her expression had definitely changed. Her eyes had turned away, dropping down to stare into nothing as she digested what he had said. She stepped away. "That's why you're flat," she whispered, probably to herself. But he had heard, regardless of her intentions. He had been successful. He could keep her out. "I don't think that's the best thing for you," she said, more loudly, "for anyone."

"What else is there but lies?" he asked. "Would you rather I pretend to be happy, ignoring the unhappiness I feel, even though they are of equal strength? Would that be any healthier?"

"No, not if it were acting," she conceded, facing him again with her back to the couch. "What about when Chief O'Brien came by. Was it still equal then?"

"A momentary fluctuation perhaps," he admitted, "but for all the relief at seeing him again there was the loss of all I'd missed. Six months. Six months of war. People I knew had died. His children had grown. Things had changed. This isn't new, you know. And I don't think it's entirely unique. When I escaped from the Jem'Hadar prison, I wasn't any happier. Relieved perhaps. Not to say that I wasn't happy, but I was also disturbed. I felt violated. I had been replaced. No one even knew that I'd been gone. Another man had been living in my quarters, performing my duties, eating lunch with my friends. Captain Sisko had visions and required extensive neural surgery, which that changeling performed. Odo became a changeling again and Kira had the O'Briens' baby and I wasn't there. I wasn't even missed. To not acknowledge all that would be denial."

It surprised him that he had brought that previous incident up. He hadn't thought of it when he'd come up with his theory. But it fit. Good and bad. One package. Just like he'd told Data.

"You're right." He hadn't expected to hear that from her. "It would be denial. And denial isn't healthy. I'm still concerned though."

That was acceptable, even expected. "I'd be questioning your credentials if you weren't," he told her. There was a moment of silence as each tried to decide what to say next. Nothing seemed to come naturally from where they'd left off. Silence was fine, Bashir decided, when one was alone, but it was an annoyance when someone was with you, especially someone who's job was to evaluate you. "What about research?" he finally said, startling her with the blunt change of topic.

"Research?" She shook her head.

"Seeing patients is one thing," he explained. "You have to be absolutely certain. I understand that. But there's no reason I can't do research. I was working on several long-term projects before they came for me: my prion project, the cure for the Blight. I'd like to continue my work."

"Of course," she nodded, even smiling. She probably thought it would help him to recover if he got back to some of his normal routines. Fine. He hoped it would, too. "I'll try to find the records. Will the work station be too uncomfortable for you?"

She was referring to the light. It probably still seemed really dark to her. "The light is increasing at nearly twice the speed it was yesterday at this time," he told her. "My eyes are improving rapidly. I'll be fine. I'd like something to work on."

"Okay," she replied, her smile widening. "I'll get you the access you need."

* * *

It was Dax who called the meeting. Sisko would have avoided it, using the mission for an excuse. But since she called it and not him, he didn't have an excuse. There were several hours before the _Defiant_ would be in range of the Dominion outpost. Worf could handle the bridge and the _Defiant_ could do without O'Brien for a little while, too. So the three of them were gathered in Sisko's quarters, and Sisko was faced with lying to his oldest and dearest friend. That he'd never seen Dax look as young as Ezri Dax did didn't help.

"He seemed fine, considering," O'Brien said, and Sisko thought he was speaking from experience. "I overheard that he wasn't eating or sleeping while he was in the brig. He kept saying he wasn't hungry, but he ate quite a bit once he got out."

Dax nodded, thoughtful. "He probably didn't even realize he was doing it. Being incarcerated is probably traumatic for him no matter how well he's treated. What about emotionally? I wish I could have seen him."

O'Brien replied repeating his earlier assessment, "He seemed fine. We talked about the war and what's he's missed during the last six months. He seemed happy to be back. He was disappointed that he couldn't come back with us though he understood the reasoning. If anything, he was maybe too calm."

It was the exact opposite of Sisko's assessment of Bashir. He couldn't tell them that, though. Luckily, Dax was watching O'Brien when he spoke.

But then Ezri turned to him and he had to think quickly. "What about you, Ben? What did the two of you talk about."

_Me, mostly_, he thought. "Pretty much the same thing," he lied. "I think this is all rather hard on him."

"Troi said he was too calm, too," Dax shared with them. "Almost as if he were unemotional."

No wonder Picard hadn't said anything about Julian being possibly violent. It never occurred to them. Julian's ire was only for him, Sisko realized, and the realization fit with everything Bashir had said to him.

"What's wrong, Ben?" Ezri asked breaking Sisko's internal thoughts.

"Nothing," he told her. "It's just not what I expected or wanted." Half-truths could be very useful. "He was dead and now he's not. I'm not sure what I expected."

"He was only dead to us," Dax corrected. "To himself, he was alive, and alone, the whole time."

* * *

Captain Picard felt a sense of relief as he watched the stars streak by through the main viewscreen. Bashir had been cleared and released and could now concentrate on healing. Sloan--if that was his real name--was in custody and would be turned over to Starfleet Security at Starbase 368. And there were no Dominion ships in the area. He was relieved, but he couldn't relax. Section 31 was a secret organization within the Federation. Picard had always looked down on organizations like the Obsidian Order, who used fear to control and police their own people. To know that there was such an organization, though one which used secrecy instead of fear, in the Federation was hard to take in. The Federation was supposed to be benevolent. It was supposed to be voluntary, an organization that people wanted to a part of. They were supposed to be free, refined, and good. There should be no need for such an organization as Section 31.

Of course, he knew that just because one played by the rules, it didn't mean that others did. That's why Starfleet Intelligence had to exist at all. And he knew that even Starfleet Intelligence had been involved in questionable activities. He'd assumed that that was what MacKenzie Calhoun had been involved in before being given command of the _Excalibur_. Somehow, it had been easier to swallow when he thought of such activities as the purview of Starfleet Intelligence. Starfleet Intelligence had rules and policies and oversight, so Picard didn't question too deeply what those activities were. He trusted that Starfleet Intelligence wouldn't cross the line.

Maybe that's why Section 31 bothered him. The lack of trust, the crossing of the line. If what Bashir said was true, there were no rules, no oversight. There was hardly even any knowledge of the organization, and their treatment of Bashir showed a definite lack of trust from the organization. Were they always there, looking over the shoulder of Starfleet and citizens alike, waiting for a slip-up, a suggestion of possible subterfuge? The Federation wasn't supposed to be like that.

"Daniels to the Bridge," a call came in. The Security Chief sounded hurried, even angry.

"Bridge," Picard said, acknowledging the call.

"He's gone, sir," Daniels explained. "Sloan. It's like he just disappeared. He must have beamed out."

Geordi was on the Bridge and he had overheard. "He couldn't have beamed off the ship," he supplied. "The shields are up and there's no place to beam to even if he could get past the shields."

"Yellow alert," Picard commanded. "Search the ship and keep an eye on the sensors in case there's a cloaked ship out there."

* * *

Troi had come through. Bashir now had access to the ship's computer and medical database. Deep Space Nine had saved his notes and Kira had sent them over as soon as she'd received his request. She even tacked on a little message. A prayer, in Bajoran, thanking the Prophets for their kindness in the return of a friend. It was from Irlo Bron's first and only prophecy. She'd gone through a lot of trouble to find such an obscure reference.

Even more important than the database and the records was Data. He'd come through, too, and Bashir now wore the freshly cleaned shoes he'd worn for the last six months. Together with the computer access, he'd found his mind sufficiently occupied as to lose track of time and the brightening of the light. He was so absorbed in his work that he didn't even hear the yellow alert or the door to his quarters opening.

"Back to work already?" Sloan asked.

Julian smiled, and without looking up, pressed the key, finishing the project he'd been working on. "Complete," the computer intoned.

"Don't tell me you thought up a cure for the Blight while you down there." Sloan quipped.

Bashir turned to look at him. Sloan was once again dressed in his customary black. He was smiling, too, trying to be playful, perhaps. Julian's own smile widened. "No," he said leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs on the computer console. The sparse light in the room was enough to shine on the toes of his shoes. At least he thought so. "I've thought up a cure for you."

Sloan didn't speak and Bashir saw with great satisfaction that he'd confused the poor man. Sloan didn't know what to say. All the better.

"I suppose you've come to say good-bye," Julian said, bringing his feet back to the floor, "or that you were hoping I'd go with you."

Sloan nodded, still smiling as he almost always did. "You're too public to come just now."

Bashir dropped his smile and his pretense. "I won't be coming at all."

"Oh, I think--" Sloan began, still smug.

"I think better," Bashir interrupted, correcting him. "And probably more often. I really must thank you for that. You gave me six months of very little distraction. I had to put my mind to good use."

Sloan's own smile was fading, "What use?"

Bashir leaned forward and slipped off his left shoe. Then he replaced both of his feet on the floor. He stood, allowing Sloan full view of his project, not that there was much to see. At least, there was not much that he would allow the man to see. A small device, black and box-like, sat at one side of the console. Bashir lifted a slender tool from beside the device and pried loose the sole of his shoe where it met the arch. A small disk slipped out and into his hand.

Sloan smirked, "I was curious about the shoes."

"You were lax not to have checked them," Bashir corrected again. "But you wouldn't have found it if you had. It wasn't in the shoe then."

Sloan waved a hand, dismissing the shoe. His smile was back, though not as broad. "What is it?" His eyes reminded Bashir of Garak when the Cardassian fancied himself Bashir's mentor. There was a hint of pride in his face. His pupil had learned to conceal things from him.

"It's my insurance," Bashir answered, holding the little disk up. It was quite small, barely the size of his finger. "You might have checked for isolinear chips or data rods, but you wouldn't have thought of compact disks, archaic form of data storage as they are. You played me so well on Romulus, I thought I should return the favor."

The pride slipped and Sloan's countenance took on an air of annoyance, something Bashir had had a lot of experience recognizing, he mused. "What data?" Sloan asked simply, no longer the eloquent spy of his previous visits.

"Every kind imaginable," Bashir answered, allowing himself some pride. "Operative assignments and aliases, shield configurations, resonance frequencies, warp engine calibrations, transport pattern encryptions. . . ." He let the list trail off.

"You're bluffing."

"But you know me to be such an honest man," Bashir teased. Still, he wasn't against a little show to prove his honesty. He placed the disk in the little device, which promptly swallowed it up. He pressed a tab on the console and one on the device simultaneously. "Computer," he ordered, "display Sample: Sloan."

"Working," the computer replied. A beam of blue light emitted from the small device and expanded into a holographic display. Data began to scroll slowly across it. Names and aliases. The data ceased and blinked away to reveal a galactic map with sparkling lights clustered at one end. The view began to zoom inward toward the cluster and finally through it until only two lights were visible. The coordinates were clearly marked. "You," Bashir narrated, "and your man Dolson." The sample spent, the viewscreen collapsed again into a beam and then winked out of existence altogether.

Sloan didn't smile. Bashir even thought perhaps he had gone slightly pale. It was hard to tell though. "And this is supposed to scare me?"

Bashir cocked his head to one side and let his tone slip into sarcasm. "Scare you? I didn't think that was possible. You have nothing to fear from me."

"Then what is the disk for?" He was very direct now, and Julian sensed Sloan's power shifting to him. Julian held the cards and Sloan had to wait to see what was played.

"The disk is nothing," Bashir told him, "a catalyst at best. It's gone beyond the disk now. But still, you needn't worry."

"Then why show me at all?"

"To simply make you aware," Bashir replied, waving his hand over the device, "as you now have a vested interest in my welfare and security."

Sloan smirked again, trying to take the power back. "Are you trying to blackmail Section 31?"

Bashir shook his head sadly. "My dear Sloan, it's more complicated than that. And more simple. Blackmail would be a threat to do something if you did not do that which I asked of you. I'm not going to do anything. I don't have to. I only have to not do something if you should do that which I asked you not to."

Sloan raised his eyebrows, but otherwise didn't comment.

"Once in every twenty-six hour period," Bashir continued, spelling it out, "I shall enter an encryption code. If I don't, the information will be broadcast on a secure channel to every Starfleet officer and crewman and every member of the Federation Council. In short, the secret will be out, and all its components exposed." He didn't think it necessary to add that the encryption code would automatically update itself according to a complex mathematical equation which he would have to calculate everyday in order to enter the proper code.

"Doctor," Sloan tried again, sighing, "I've already told you. You are a member of Section 31. Whether you like it or not, we're not your enemy. And breaking codes is something we do every day."

"Not my code," Bashir corrected. "Six months, remember. If I am not where I choose to be," Bashir went on, "I will not enter the code. It's that simple."

Sloan opened his mouth, probably to assure Bashir that there were ways of making him give up the code. But Bashir didn't give him time. "And you should know that there's nothing you can do to me to make me give up the code. It wouldn't matter anyway. You could take me away, even perhaps take the device away, but I couldn't enter the code even if you made me want to. It requires both simultaneous local and remote access. In other words, I have to be where I want to be. If I'm not, the code doesn't get entered and the secret is out."

Sloan was starting to understand that Bashir had thought of all the options. He had to be. He did look pale. "What if you're captured by the Dominion?"

Bashir had foreseen that possibility, too. He had contingencies, but most of all, he had Section 31. "Then we should hope that that doesn't happen. I'm sure they could find the code long before you could. They were able to get all my memories and medical knowledge last time."

"And if you were to die?"

"Are you threatening?" Bashir asked in return.

Sloan held up a hand and his tone matched the sincerity of that night he'd told Bashir it was an honor to know him. "No, Doctor, I am not threatening," he said. "But there is a war on, and you will be going back to active duty, I take it."

"There is always a risk, yes," Bashir conceded, "but if I die, I won't care one way or the other whether the information is released. Still, I'm sure, given sufficient time, I can come up with a workable solution, perhaps even one that reverts the information to you should I die. But then, that's already happened, hasn't it? My death, I mean."

Sloan dropped his eyes. "An opportunity presented itself. It was thought that you'd be more amenable to your membership in Section 31 if you had no other obligations. You weren't supposed to call Commander Data."

"Oh, you were going to come back for me?" Bashir posed. "May I ask when?"

"It really doesn't matter now, does it?" Sloan threw another hand up. "Well, I did say I enjoyed being wrong, didn't I?"

"Wrong about me?" Bashir felt the victory. Sloan was going to back down. "You didn't predict this, did you? Not like everything else."

"It doesn't mean we won't find a way around this," Sloan countered, trying to salvage something from the situation.

"I can't stop you from trying," Bashir admitted. "But I will stop you from succeeding."

"To the challenge then," Sloan offered. "I'll miss you, Doctor."

"I'm sure you will," Bashir returned without reciprocating. "Your ship is waiting."

Sloan's mouth turned up on one side. "What ship?"

Bashir turned and pointed out his viewport toward a patch of empty space. "That one," he said. He heard no response, so he turned back around. Sloan was gone.

The door chimed. "Security, Doctor," someone called. "We'll need to search your quarters."

Bashir sat down in the chair again and covered the little device. "Of course," he replied, and the door slid open.

"Has anyone entered your quarters?" It was Daniels, the Security Chief. As he spoke, two other officers spread out with lighted rifles.

"You mean Sloan?" Bashir asked. "I told you he'd escape. You might ask Mr. Dolson. I'm sure he knows where to find Sloan."

Daniels lowered his weapon toward the floor. "Dolson? Why him?"

"I overheard them talking one night from the cell. He's Section 31."

"Why didn't you say anything sooner?" Daniels asked, stepping forward.

"Would you have believed me?" Bashir asked in return. "You thought I was a criminal."

Daniels rested one hand on the console. "I didn't," he replied. "I was following orders. You're going to be with us for awhile, I hear. We're your crew. And we're a good crew. You have to trust us. You _can_ trust us."

Bashir regarded him for a few moments. He seemed sincere enough, but he was also young. Young and naive. Trust was something too often broken. Best not to expect too much than to be disappointed later. "I'll give that some thought, Lieutenant. Thank you."

"Clear, sir," one of the other officers reported.

"He's not on the ship anymore, is he?" Daniels asked Bashir.

Bashir shook his head. He saw no reason not to tell the truth. Besides, he liked Daniels' forthrightness. "No. He beamed away just before you entered."

Daniels frowned, but he kept his voice calm. "And you didn't call Security?"

"With him standing right here? No."

"He couldn't have beamed off the ship," Daniels tried to argue. "The shields are up."

"He beamed into my cell last night, too," Bashir offered, not contradicting him, but leading him in the right direction.

The two officers behind Daniels were waiting for him, shifting their weight and shouldering their weapons. But Bashir had Daniel's attention. "Past the forcefield?" he asked, incredulous. Bashir nodded, and Daniels shook his head. "If they've got technology like that, why aren't they sharing with those of us who are fighting this war?" he asked, voicing a thought Bashir had had first had over a year before.

"They like to think they're fighting it, too," Bashir guessed. "Or they like to think they are the only ones fighting the only war that is truly important."


	4. Chapter Four

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith, Part I: Hope**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Four**

The next two days were quiet. Several doctors had tried to take up the torch of his research during Bashir's 'absence', and Troi was able to get access to those notes as well. The other doctors, impressed by his early work, were happy enough to let him have the projects back, asking only partial credit if their work proved beneficial. None of them had finished the prion project or found a cure for the Blight. One had managed to adapt the vaccine Bashir had already found for the people of Boranis III into a vaccine for most of the humanoids of the Alpha Quadrant, but it would only work on unborn children, just as Bashir's vaccine had cured Ekoria's child and not Ekoria herself. There was still nothing to protect those already born from the biogenic weapon.

Since the lights in his quarters were still not as bright as those in the corridor beyond, Bashir stayed in and worked, accepting visitors when they came. Troi was the most frequent of his guests, though she wasn't exactly a guest. Data stopped by for dinner, and the captain had dropped by once after Sloan's departure. The only time Bashir had left his quarters was for a trip to Sickbay where he was pronounced physically healthy.

It was the second day after Sloan's last visit that he received a message from his parents. His mother had cried, which unnerved Bashir and nearly threw off his balance. His mother was the solid one, the foundation. His father flitted about, but she was steady. And she had cried. It was so hard for them, she had said, to lose him. They were glad, overjoyed, to find that it was all a mistake again. (Starfleet had told them it was a mistake. Bashir rankled at that. A mistake was not intentional. What had been done to him wasn't an accident.) It was harder this time, she admitted, because there had been time to accept his death, as if that could ever be accomplished. Still, she thanked whoever was responsible that they had another chance. With the war, not all families were as fortunate as that.

His father had joked. He always did, it seemed. But Bashir could see that he was near tears as well as he spoke to the machine that would carry his words to his only son. He wanted to know how Starfleet could make such a mistake. And why hadn't Julian written sooner so they would have realized it wasn't true?

He'd have to explain to them how he'd been missing and where he'd been. Bashir had been sitting in front of his console for an hour trying to figure out just how to do that. He'd started and stopped at least a dozen times, deleting what he'd already said. How did one tell one's parents that he wasn't dead anymore? How much was he to tell them? He didn't want to tell them everything. He didn't want to worry them about Section 31. They had enough to worry about.

When Troi came by for their daily visit, he still hadn't gotten past "Hello." He turned off the recording and met her at the couch. She smiled and asked how he was, and he decided he could probably use her help after all. "I'm a bit frustrated," he told her, and her smile widened ever so slightly. "I don't know what to say to my parents."

Her smile was replaced by serious contemplation. "I'd be glad to help you brainstorm," she told him. "But in the end, you'll have to decide for yourself. I take it you don't want to tell them the truth."

"Starfleet didn't tell them the truth," Bashir countered evenly. "They said they made a mistake. That's all."

"Rather an oversimplification," Troi agreed. "But the truth is harder."

Julian stood and paced over to the window. "They worry enough about me with the war on. Especially after my imprisonment and other happenings. They don't know about Section 31. I don't think they need to know. It's too much."

"You could still tell the truth," Troi suggested, not getting up, but turning toward him, "without telling them the whole truth."

"I thought of that," he agreed. "I was missing, presumed dead. They mistakenly identified the body. But they'd ask how I went missing."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Which brings you back around to Section 31." She thought for a moment. "You were under orders, correct? Then you could tell them you were on a mission."

Julian thought about that. It wasn't a lie. He had been on a mission. A couple of different missions depending on one's particular perspective. "And I can't give details about the mission," he added, further developing her idea. "Something went wrong, I got marooned and was lucky to be found at all."

"Something like that," she agreed smiling again. "I don't think you have to dwell on that. Keep it short and move on to what's important. They're your family."

_What is important?_ he thought to himself. He'd been having trouble finding important things of late. He almost let himself slip down that path of thought. It was a sign that he was growing more comfortable with Troi. She came everyday and was always nice and inviting. He almost wanted to talk to her. But he had decided one thing _was_ important, to him: Deep Space Nine. She was the main thing keeping him from getting there.

A burst of light flashed by the viewport and stung his eyes, causing him to flinch and back away, but the jolt to the ship knocked him off his feet. He looked around and saw that Troi was on the floor, too. She pushed herself up on her knees. Just as another shot hit. Only then did the red alert klaxon begin to blare.

"Where was the klaxon?" he shouted over the next barrage.

"They must have come up too fast," she surmised.

Bashir shook his head. _Into the fire, indeed_. "They would have been on the sensors."

"Maybe they were hiding in the nebula." She held onto the couch and tried to stand, but the jolts came rapidly. From the flares of light outside, Bashir assumed the shields were still holding, but the ship was being buffeted by the constant contact. Troi kept getting knocked down. "I have to get to the Bridge."

The next hit was not met by the flare of shields, but rammed full-force into the hull, sending vibrations up through the deck. "We've lost some shields," Bashir guessed aloud. He crawled to his console and pulled himself into the seat there. The floor bucked beneath him but he managed to hold on. He called up the computer and began punching in commands.

Troi managed to find her feet for the few seconds it took to move to the console. "What are you looking for?" she asked.

"Shields, damage reports, casualties, life signs," he began, rattling off a list.

"Access requires a level three clearance or higher," the computer droned, a voice of calm amid the chaos of the battle outside.

Bashir slammed his fist on the console. "I used to have a level four," he complained.

Troi was watching the window. "We lost shields on this side," she confirmed. "They've got them back up for now, I think. I saw at least three ships. Jem'Hadar."

"What's your clearance, Counselor?" he asked.

She took the hint, turned back to the console, and entered her clearance code. The reports Bashir had requested began to scroll across the screen. "They're borrowing power from other areas for the shields," he said, sharing with her what he saw.

"Hull breach three decks down." She pointed to another area of data.

"Turbolifts are out," Bashir added. "You'll never make it ten decks through Jefferies tubes."

She nodded. "Looks like we're stuck on this deck." She pulled up the damage reports. "Did you see how many ships there were?"

"More than a dozen," he answered. "Fourteen, I think." While she assessed the damage, he had pulled up some other readings on the bottom half of the screen. His fingers had been flying across the console as he looked at casualty reports, weapons status. But now his fingers froze. He was looking at life signs. "We've been boarded." Jem'Hadar lifesigns.

Troi froze, too, then turned her head to look at him. "Where are they?"

Bashir forced himself to move again, taking over the whole screen with lifesign readings. "Deck 10, Section 16."

"That's pretty close," she said. "We'd better get out of here. There's a weapons locker in the next section."

Bashir jumped out of his seat and raced, as well as he could, across the lurching deck to the replicator. "What are you doing?" Troi yelled at him from where she was still gripping the chair.

"Medkit!" he yelled back. If there were Jem'Hadar on the ship, there would be wounded. And if he and Troi were stuck on this deck, chances were the med crews were unable to get down to it. As were the extra Security forces. He replicated a few essentials, a tricorder, and a bag to throw them in.

"Section 15!" She called. "We got three of their ships, though!"

Bashir grabbed the last roll of bandages from the replicator and stuffed them into the bag. He thought about replicating the low level pain killers Geordie had given him, since he was going to have a headache. His time of slowly acclimating to normal light levels was over. It was going to be bright in the corridor. He let it go though. His quarters were in Section 14. "Let's go," he said, heading toward the door.

Troi was already there, just far enough back to keep the door from opening. She had her hand phaser drawn, and she waited for him to catch up to her. "Ready?"

He checked the tricorder first, scanning beyond the door. Satisfied that no Jem'Hadar or Cardassians were about, he nodded and she stepped forward, opening the door. The light stabbed at him, but it wasn't blinding anymore. He could see her cautiously look one direction and then the other, phaser always pointing the direction she was looking. _Counselor and doctor_, he mused. We were supposed to be healers. He could hear weapons fire in the distance. Not so distant. She waved for him with her free arm and got bumped into the doorframe for it when another blast hit. He grabbed her arm to help steady her and together they ran out into the corridor.

* * *

Kira woke up and acknowledged the transmission. She pressed the controls on her wall, waiting for the Emissary's face to appear. It took only a second. His face was unreadable, but she could see the smoke and damaged consoles behind him. The fact that he was calling at all, though, signaled that the _Defiant_ had survived whatever engagement had come up.

"Major, we'll be returning to the station by tomorrow afternoon. Chief O'Brien will be sending a repair report. We've taken some damage."

Kira nodded. She'd been hoping for more. "It's good to hear from you, sir," she said, seemingly ignoring all the Captain had said. "We couldn't get a message through to you. Did you reach the _Enterprise_?"

Sisko allowed her a small, fleeting smile. "I saw him. He seemed fine. A bit hollow, but fine."

Kira let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Is he with you?"

Sisko shook his head. "Not just yet. He needs some time to recover."

"Recover from what?" Kira asked, alarmed.

"I said he was fine," the Captain repeated, more slowly this time. "I promise, Major, to give a full report when I get back."

Kira dropped her eyes and nodded once. "Of course."

The captain's voice softened. "See you in fourteen hours, Nerys."

She looked up and smiled. "Yes, sir."

The transmission ended and Kira laid back down again. She closed her eyes. It was only midnight. She needed the sleep. But it wouldn't come.

* * *

The sound of weapons fire decreased as they ran away from the firing. They reached the weapons locker in less than five minutes, but there was only one phaser rifle left. Troi looked at him with uncertainty, trying to decide which way to divide the weapons.

Bashir decided for her. "I'll take the hand phaser," he offered. "I'll need my other hand for the medkit." It wasn't the real reason he had chosen the less powerful weapon. The larger rifle was more powerful, and therefore required less precise aiming. Bashir, with his enhanced hand-eye coordination, could make just as deadly use with the hand phaser by aiming precisely for vulnerable areas, such as the point where the Ketracel White tube entered a Jem'Hadar's neck.

She handed him the smaller phaser and shouldered the larger rifle. As she did so, Bashir noted movement in the cross corridor to the left. A Starfleet Security officer was dragging another officer by the shoulders, leaving a trail of blood behind them. Bashir checked the setting on the phaser and then followed the two officers down the corridor. He had to run to catch up with them, and Troi had to run to keep up with him. The ship lurched again and Bashir hit the bulkhead with his shoulder. "Where are you taking her?" he asked the Security officer.

"We've been putting the wounded in Section 10 when we have the chance," the man answered. He was only an ensign but already he looked like a seasoned veteran. Bashir handed the phaser back to Troi and bent down to get his arms under the woman's knee and shoulder on one side.

The ensign got the idea and moved to lift the woman, a lieutenant commander, on the other side. "She saved my life," he said, nodding down at the woman.

Bashir couldn't see any visible wounds, but he could feel the warm liquid on her back. Judging from the blood on the floor, she'd lost a lot of it. Her face was pale, but her lips still held their color. She might make it to Section 10, and maybe then Bashir could do something for her.

"Are there any medical personnel in Section 10?" Troi asked, trying to keep her footing beside him through another blast. Bashir wondered why she would ask. Not that it wasn't a good question. But did it mean she had doubts about his ability to treat the wounded, especially in a triage situation?

The man shook his head. "No, we're just getting them out of the way of the fighting, at least for now."

The deck obliged them by remaining steady as they rounded the next corner. What Bashir saw next was utter chaos. At least a dozen seriously wounded, open wounds, blood everywhere, a few blue-trimmed officers trying to help them. It was impossible to tell the walking wounded from the uninjured; everyone had at least cuts and bruises. Bashir decided to concentrate on the worst cases, and hope that nobody would collapse on him before he got to the less seriously injured.

Bashir helped the ensign set the lieutenant commander down, but stopped the ensign before he could run off. "Where are they?" he asked.

"Med teams can't get down here," the man answered.

Bashir shook his head, "The Jem'Hadar? Where are they?"

"Just got to Section 14, last I saw. We were holding them there."

"That's only four sections," Bashir told him. "Someone's got to stay here."

The ensign looked at Troi and nodded toward her rifle. "She can stay."

"I plan on it," Troi said.

Bashir didn't have time to argue. "This place isn't defensible. They'll cut the wounded down. We need defenders and help to carry the wounded."

"I have to get back to my post," the ensign argued. "Look, I'll see if we can't send someone back. But if we can't hold them, it's not going to matter much."

Bashir let him go. The lieutenant commander was bleeding to death. "This is a mess," he said under his breath. He took out the tricorder and started to scan the woman. He rolled her over and found the wound without any trouble at all. Another inch and the blast would have cut her spine in half. Bashir threw open his medkit and knew he didn't have enough of anything. He used the tissue regenerator as a quick fix, stanching the flow of blood from the woman's wound. He left her lying on her stomach and moved to assess the other wounded.

Scanning them quickly with his eyes, he counted a dozen patients lying on the deck. At least half of those had open disruptor wounds, all of which were bleeding freely because of the anti-coagulant in Jem'Hadar weapons. One crewman had an open fracture of the femur. Another was missing her arm below the elbow. The other four had second and third degree burns. Two of the burn victims were shivering, but none of the four looked as though they would die immediately.

He looked up at the blue-trims who had stopped to stare at him. "Do any of you have medical training?" he asked. They each shook their heads. Two of them looked spooked. One seemed completely unconcerned with the present situation, but he was a Vulcan. Of course, Bashir could guess they'd all had some basic training, but the situation probably overwhelmed them. They needed a leader, someone to make them focus. "Well, now you're going to get a crash course," he told them.

"You a med-tech?" one of the pale ones, a woman of diminutive stature, asked. She held one hand limp in her lap and looked nauseated.

"Doctor Julian Bashir," he replied, granting her a smile, in the hopes of raising her spirits, "at your service. What's around here?" he asked, gesturing with his head to indicate the corridor. His hands were busy, though they were too late for the lieutenant he was checking. The man was going to die. He had a hole in his side large enough to fit a fist through. The blast that had hit him had shattered his ribs, sending fragments of bone into the heart. It was a wonder the man was still breathing at all. Bashir could tell at a glance there were others with a better chance of surviving and he had limited supplies. _I never liked triage_, he told himself. _Not this part, anyway_. The man was unconscious and unlikely to wake up. Bashir did nothing for him and moved on.

"Quarters," the small woman answered, pointing. "Those are mine."

"Aren't you going to help him?" the other human accused, pointing to the man Bashir had left.

"Lieutenant Versalis is beyond help, Ensign," the Vulcan, a lieutenant, answered, allowing Bashir to concentrate on his next assessment.

Broken femur. A good deal of pain, but not life-threatening. He could reduce the fracture with traction within a minute, but there were others in greater need. "I'll be back for you," he told that man, no more than a boy really. Just starting out, he'd bet. The boy nodded back, but didn't dare speak. He was probably trying to be braver than he was, hiding the pain. Bashir moved to the next patient in line.

"Quarters have replicators," he said, getting back to the young woman's answer to his question and ignoring the accusation as something completely counter-productive and impractical at this point. "Has anyone got a PADD?"

The lights in the corridor flickered as the Vulcan held out a PADD, which Troi took and handed to Bashir. "They'll cut power to non-essential systems," she whispered to him.

"Let's get what we can while we can," he whispered back, already punching in a list, trying to brainstorm, in order of importance, the supplies he wanted. "Take her," he added, nodding to the woman as he removed his jacket. "Make a sling for her and have her help you carry the supplies back."

Troi understood. "She needs a distraction." She nodded and used Bashir's jacket for the sling.

The lights flickered again and Bashir hoped they'd at least be able to get the first few things on his list. He turned back to his next patient. A woman. Her arm had been torn off just below the elbow. Someone had managed a tourniquet. She was unconscious, but the bleeding was slowed. He called the Vulcan over and asked him his name.

"Kovek," the lieutenant answered.

"Kovek," Bashir acknowledged, "I need your help," He handed him a dermal regenerator, a hypospray, and a roll of bandages. He quickly instructed him on their use and moved on to the next patient. Kovek nodded and began to work without protest, though also without enthusiasm.

Bashir's next involuntary aide was less than resigned to his new role. Bashir ignored his protests at first and kept telling him what needed to be done. The Vulcan did the arguing, telling the other man that it was illogical to disobey. One doctor was not enough. Carter, the unhappy ensign, was not doing anything else of importance and therefore, if one wanted the wounded to survive--and there was no logical reason to want them to die--one would have to become another set of hands for the doctor. To Carter's credit, he did what he was ordered to do even if he argued the entire time.

Bashir found it easy to ignore Carter's complaints, tuning him out as easily as he'd tuned out the rush of water back in the cave. It was nothing but white noise to him. He went on, treated the burn victims with temporary syntheskin, pain killers, antibiotics, and synergine for the shock. He wished all of his patients could be so easily relieved of their pain and distress.

* * *

"Holding at twenty-six, Captain" Data answered quickly from Ops. "They have broken through to Section 14."

"But they haven't made it off the deck?" Picard asked, hopeful. Well, as hopeful as one could be when the Jem'Hadar had boarded his ship. Deck 10, Sections 16 through 14. The hopeful was for silver linings. Twenty-six was just over half the original boarding party. Deck 10 was only one deck. Sections 16 through 14 meant only three sections. It could be worse. It could be a lot worse.

"No, sir," Data responded, his fingers dancing over his console. He was probably managing six different tasks, Picard mused. _Easier for him_, he thought. For Picard, the battle raged around his ship and within it, and he didn't have a positronic brain.

"Helm," he ordered, changing his focus as he saw an opportunity appear on the tactical display, "bring us around 34 degrees port. Tactical, lock photon torpedoes on the third ship's starboard nacelle." There was a leak, visible to the sensors. That nacelle was giving that Jem'Hadar ship trouble, and it just might give the _Enterprise_ an edge. That ship, positioned as it was just now, in between two others, might damage the other ships when it blew.

"Aye, sir," Helm and Tactical answered in unison.

The ship turned and the main viewscreen panned over to face the new target.

"Torpedoes armed and locked," Tactical reported.

Riker gave the command. "Fire!"

Three torpedoes streaked out through the space between the ships and slammed into the smaller, bug-like Jem'Hadar vessel. The first hit squarely on target. The second was slightly off, hitting the strut between the vessel's body and the nacelle. The third hit squarely on the underside of the ship as it was tipped upward and to port by the first blast. The three torpedoes together blew the ship apart, sending large pieces of debris spewing out in several directions. The largest piece, nearly the whole forward hull, plowed into the ship on its port side, causing its shields to crackle and fail, while another piece glanced off the shields of the starboard ship.

"Phasers on the fourth vessel," Riker ordered. "Fire!"

"Quantum torpedo on the lead ship," Picard ordered in turn, ignoring the second ship. Two for one was good enough. The lead ship would be expecting him to try and finish off the second ship, the third of the group. Picard hoped to surprise it.

"Coming around," Helm answered.

"Locked," Tactical responded even as the fourth ship was destroyed.

"Fire!"

* * *

By the time that Troi and the woman, Saeren, had returned with a couple of armfuls of new supplies, the lights in the corridor had gone out, meaning main power--and with it, the replicators--was gone. There was emergency lighting though. Bashir felt more comfortable with the light level, but he was more worried for his patients than for himself. He could take a headache. By this time, he had assessed and prioritized the twelve original patients, one of whom, Versalis, had died. But even then, there were new arrivals just behind the counselor. Carter had stopped complaining and even Saeren seemed to realize that her distress would have to wait.

One Bolian was brought in with a good section of his skull knocked away. He was still breathing, but that was the only sign of life he gave. Blue blood poured down that side of his face into his open eyes. He didn't move, didn't blink, not even when Bashir flicked the exoscalpel across the back of his hand. He would die, too. There were impaction injuries, internal bleeding, problems that required surgery in most cases. Some might have a chance. If the battle didn't last too long. That was Bashir's task then, to try and help them last it out. He thought he could win with a few of them.

Another hour and fifteen more had arrived; seven more had died. Bashir was himself covered in blood at this point, red, green, blue, and probably a few other shades. He glanced around. Troi was bloody, too, bandaging and helping out with the rifle still slung over one shoulder. Saeren did what she could with one arm. During a lapse in the incoming traffic, Bashir had found the time to reduce the dislocation in her shoulder. She'd passed out, but she was helpful when she woke up again.

Another arrival. She was alone, pulling herself along the floor with her arms. The sounds of gunfire had grown quiet and distant, and Bashir wondered just how far she'd come. She collapsed before Bashir had had a chance to stand. Kovek reached her first, and Bashir helped him carry the woman farther into the corridor. She appeared to be paralyzed from the waist down. They laid her gently on the floor next to the previous patient.

Kovek had the tricorder near him. "Not broken," he said, clipping the sentence short.

He held the screen toward Bashir. But Bashir didn't need to look. He began to pump her chest with his hands. "Heart stopped," he told the Vulcan. That overrode any injury to her spine. No heartbeat, no life. It was that simple. He tried mouth-to-mouth, being so desperately low on supplies. He counted the seconds as he tried CPR. Nothing worked. She was dead. Bashir leaned back on his heels and let his hands fall to his sides. She'd tried so hard just to die at the end.

"I put her with others," Kovek volunteered, and Bashir wondered if he heard him right.

"What?" he asked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrists.

"I'll put her with the others," the Vulcan repeated. Bashir nodded and let him go. They'd been removing the dead to one of the quarters nearest to the corridor.

But just as he started to lift her, Kovek let her fall again. He sighed himself and Bashir thought that rather uncharacteristic. "We went to the Academy together," the Vulcan said. His hand shook as he brought it to his face. "All four years." His shoulders heaved and Bashir realized Kovek was crying.

Bashir grabbed a light beacon from the floor, reached up, and pulled Kovek's hand from his face, startling the Vulcan who pulled away in distress. But not before Bashir had gotten a chance to flash the light at him. One eye dilated. The other did not.

"Kovek," Bashir said, trying to keep his voice calm. "Come sit down." Troi had come over beside him, drawn by the rare show of emotion.

"What's wrong withyou?" Kovek asked, slurring his words and drawing the attention of Carter and Saeren and several of the wounded who could take their minds off their own pain.

"Kovek," Bashir tried again. "You're wounded. Let me help you."

"She's wounded!" Kovek replied, nearly shrieking and pointing at his friend on the floor. "Help 'er!"

Bashir shook his head. "I can't help her," he told Kovek. "I can try to help you. Come sit down. Carter will put her with the others." He glanced over his shoulder where Carter was nodding. The man's own eyes showed worry.

"You can't her away!" Kovek cried. He was holding his head now. The right side. The same as the eye that wouldn't react to the light. Bashir had already guessed head injury. Kovek had seemed to be fine. Triage had led Bashir to the more seriously wounded. Or so it seemed. The truth was, he'd missed Kovek.

Bashir wasn't sure if he should blame himself or triage in principle. In the end, he knew he was responsible. He'd taken Kovek as an aide, not as a patient. Kovek himself had not admitted any injury or complained of any pain, but with Vulcan fortitude and a head injury, he couldn't be expected to be so helpful. Bashir was the one who should have known to check, and he berated himself for the lapse.

"What happened to him?" Troi whispered in his ear.

"Head trauma," Bashir whispered back. "There's probably bleeding in his brain." He tried to edge closer to the sobbing Vulcan.

Shocked, Troi turned to look at him. "When did that happen?"

"Quite some time ago from the look of things," Bashir answered. "We need to calm him down."

Moving closer, Bashir tried to touch Kovek's shoulder, but the Vulcan batted away his hand.

"Be careful," Troi whispered, reminding him that Vulcans were much stronger than humans, and an emotional Vulcan could be a dangerous Vulcan.

Bashir knew that though. He knew a lot about Vulcans, and just about every other species in the Federation and quite a few without. He was already going over Vulcan anatomy in his head. But he knew Troi was just showing her concern for his safety and so he didn't reply. He just nodded and tried again.

"Kovek," he called softly, "come lie down." He touched Kovek's shoulder again, but Kovek suddenly jumped to his feet. The sudden movement caused him to lurch to one side, the left side.

Bashir stood, too, but Kovek lurched again, this time, right toward Bashir, arms outstretched and fingers splayed like claws. He grabbed onto Bashir's shoulders before the doctor could react, shoving him into the opposite bulkhead. Bashir's own head rang for a bit, but he shook it off and his eyes began to clear.

Troi had come over to help him, but he pushed her away. Kovek was falling, his eyes rolled up under his eyelids. "Help him," Bashir told her, and she scrambled to reach the Vulcan before he hit the floor.

Troi and Carter helped Kovek to sit, while Saeren gave Bashir her hand to help him off the floor. Bashir touched Carter on the shoulder once he'd pulled back away from Kovek. "Can you take the woman away, please?" he whispered, and Carter just nodded.

"I'll help," Troi offered. She slipped the rifle off her shoulder and handed it to Bashir before she lifted the legs of the dead woman.

Kovek was awake and weeping quietly now. He clutched one hand to Bashir's arm as he knelt beside him. Bashir glanced back to Saeren and she seemed to know what he wanted. "It's alright," she told him, shaking her head. No one else needed him right then. He would stay with Kovek.

Bashir was glad. He wanted to stay with the Vulcan. He had once told Kira that no one should die alone, and where he could help it, he always wanted to try and be there for a patient that didn't have anyone else. It was never easy, but he felt it to be an important thing, something the living owed to the dying. And he felt particular sympathy, not to mention guilt, for Kovek's plight. In his life, Kovek had mastered control, as all Vulcans are taught. Control was something Bashir had practiced for many years, but even so, it was often a struggle. For Kovek, it was as simple as breathing. Except that now, a head injury had caved in that control. He was laid bare, in all his weakness, to die without ever regaining what was most important to his life.

Kovek spoke to him, telling him about Jenna, the woman, his friend, who had just died. She had struggled with advanced astrophysics. He had struggled with interpersonal relationships. They had helped each other. She was his first non-Vulcan friend. As he talked, more and more of his words turned to mumbles. His hand lost its grip. When Troi touched Bashir's shoulder, Kovek had become completely incoherent.

"They're coming this way," Troi whispered, taking the rifle. She handed him the hand phaser.

_Not yet_, he wanted to tell her. Kovek wasn't gone yet. But the Jem'Hadar wouldn't care. He nodded and thought of the other wounded. He thought again about what he'd said to the Security officer. The corridor wasn't defensible. There was nothing to take cover behind. They were exposed on either end.

Carter, Saeren, and the patients who were conscious all looked to him to save them. Troi outranked him. She'd even commanded the bridge of the _Enterprise_, but she, too, waited for him to tell them what to do.

"We'll have move them," he told her, and he hated the idea of what movement might do to some of the wounded. The Jem'Hadar, though, would do worse.

"Where?" She knelt down. "We'd only be boxed in."

"How many weapons have we got?" Bashir noted his hand phaser and her rifle, but no others.

"Carter has a phaser, too," Troi offered.

"And how many Jem'Hadar?" He was already forming an unpleasant plan. He could do it, sublimate whatever negative feelings it provoked. He'd slept with the dead before. Could the others?

"Six, at least."

"Two for each of us." Bashir patted Kovek's arm once and then stood up. "The dead quarters. We can ambush them in there."

Even in the dim light, Bashir could see Troi's face pale. "We're going to play dead."

Bashir nodded. "Among the dead. Shouldn't be too hard. Most of them are unconscious," he waved a hand at the wounded. He looked down at Kovek. "Comatose. We can use the dead to disguise the most visual aspects of their breathing. Cover them. Those that can will have to hold their breaths like the rest of us. There's not that many to go around."

Troi nodded, but her expression showed her shock at his language. He surprised himself really, talking about the dead like so much cordwood. Cordwood? He'd never even seen cordwood, so why had he thought of that word. Auschwitz. The dead stacked like cordwood. He'd heard that before. "Consider it a defense mechanism," he told her. "I once got used to death."

"That might be the most honest thing you've said to me yet," she admitted. "I can feel you here."

Bashir let her comment go, giving it no reply. It would only complicate things and besides, they didn't have the time. "How long?"

"Four minutes maybe," she replied.

"Let's go then. We've got twenty-seven patients to move. Put Saeren with the most mobile: fractured femur, arm, etc. Those who can walk with a little help. We'll have to carry the others."

"They're not going to like this," Troi breathed.

"They don't have to like it," Bashir told her. "They just have to survive it."

Saeren did her job, taking two at a time, one hanging on to her, her hanging on to the other. Carter helped Bashir carry Kovek. Bashir took the Vulcan's shoulders, carefully cradling his head, while Carter lifted at the knees. It wasn't quick progress but it was easier than going it alone. Saeren and Troi worked together. It was five minutes before they were all behind the closed door in the room of the dead.

But it wasn't enough. Troi, being the senior officer, issued the orders, trying to help the patients and staff accept what was about to be done. They blanched.

Bashir stepped up. "I know it sounds callous. I know that doing this feels like walking over your own grave, but the dead are dead. They can't hurt us but they can help us. And, if we don't do this, we'll be dead, too, and then they _will_ have died in vain."

They began to move even as Bashir heard the boots in the corridor outside. Still a few doors down. The others probably didn't hear it. He motioned to Troi and Carter. Carter, like himself, had a hand phaser.

* * *

The Third rushed forward into the room. The First had chosen him to lead the boarding party and he didn't want the First or the Vorta to think him lacking in courage for the Founders. He led his troops. He did not simply order them. He had split the ranks, leaving the Fourth and Fifth behind while he took five others and advanced to the next section.

They had come across a blood-filled corridor and two lone defenders. The Federation soldiers were cut down easily enough, though they did managed to kill Okin'dahi. The Third left him behind without another thought. He had done his duty. He had served the Founders.

The room the Third and the remaining four entered was quiet and dark like the others they had seen. This one had a smell though. The smell of blood and death. Jem'Hadar were bred to be soldiers, to fight in the worst of conditions, so the Third did not need bright light to see that this was the room of the dead. Bodies covered the floor of the main room, strewn over each other with ghastly wounds, some dressed, some not. Some were still armed, having fought and died as Jem'Hadar might have, though without anyone to remove the weapons and continue the fight.

The Third was standing in the door, blocking the entrance. He was about to turn and lead his men forward when he heard a sound. A moan. Someone was alive.

He debated letting it go. A living wounded in this room was no threat to the Dominion. He would die soon enough. And yet, it could have been a trap or someone not so seriously wounded. An officer. A valuable prisoner for the Dominion. Which would the First discipline him for? Better to investigate. He motioned his men inside, taking the point position for himself.

"Check them," he ordered. He kicked one of the bodies with his boot. It did not moan or move. Dead. He kicked the one beneath it. Nothing. Beside that one, with one arm caught beneath the body, but the hand visible still clutching a phaser, was a civilian. The Third hesitated. He was clearly dead. Staring blindly forward, the eyes, still as they were, seemed to bore right through him. Then he heard the shot.

His first instinct was to turn and return fire, but then he felt the pain inside himself. A blade of heat cut through his spine and sent him to his knees. He knew that he was exposing Eni'kalan behind him, but he was helpless. His muscles disobeyed his orders. His hand could not raise his weapon; he could not even lift himself from the floor or activate his communicator. It was only the nearness of Eni'kalan and the others that kept his face from touching the deck. But as they fell around him, he fell. And in less than thirty seconds, he knew it was his men who were dead, and he was aware of the living standing above him even if he couldn't turn his body to look at them.

One of them knelt down, the one with the lifeless eyes. Even now, in his animate face, they did not seem truly alive. Humans. Jem'Hadar lived for the fight. For humans, it was fighting that took the life out of them.

"You're going to die," the man said, and the Third was vaguely surprised to hear no malice in his voice. "There's nothing I can do for you."

"I am already dead," the Third told him, refusing to relinquish his dignity. He was Jem'Hadar. To the last breath. "Victory is life!"

The human's eyebrows raised, his forehead became lined. "I know you believe that." He even sounded sorry. "You shall get neither."

The Third wanted to spit on the human's pity, but the man stood and turned away, taking the Third's disruptor with him.

* * *

"We can uncover the wounded," Bashir said, stepping away from the paralyzed Jem'Hadar. He handed the man's weapon to the young man with the broken leg. "A weapon for you, my dear," he said with a smile, offering another disruptor to Saeren as if it were a bouquet of flowers.

"How thoughtful," she chuckled, playing along.

Back to business. "There's no sense moving them again. We might just have to come back. If someone's condition has changed, call out."

"Over here, doctor," Carter called. He was standing beside one of the wounded. Number five by Julian's triage count. One of the original twelve, fifth in priority. Bashir rushed over, leaving the others to continue uncovering the wounded. He could see the man was dead, but he used the tricorder anyway. Potassium. "Hyper-calaemia," Bashir sighed, giving the cause of death to no one since no one was listening. The man moved from number five to number ten. Ten among the dead. He might have made it, could have made it, with more supplies, better supplies, an infirmary.

_There are twenty-six others who might make it_, Bashir's mind argued, forcing him back to his duty. _Leave the dead behind. He doesn't need you anymore_. "How are the others?" he called out.

"Bejlis is bleeding again," Saeren said. Bejlis was the amputation, conscious now and obviously in pain. Shock was a danger. Bashir sent Saeren in search of outdated supplies. Needles, hooks. The chances of her finding any were small though, given the reliance on computers and modern technology.

There was always a phaser, if he could find no other method to stop her bleeding. He could cauterize the wound, but that could complicate her chances of integrating with an artificial limb. The tourniquet, however, was just as bad and less reliable. So he took out the phaser and apologized to the woman for causing her more pain. She managed a small smile before her face contorted into a grimace as he fired. The bleeding stopped. Bashir squeezed her remaining hand gently and then moved on.

Several of the others had not fared well from the move. Only two had died. Though Bashir had anticipated that some might die, their deaths still hung heavily on his conscience.

Behind him, the Jem'Hadar nagged at him, assaulting the wounded with words now that his body wouldn't work. Bashir was able to tune him out, to relegate the tirade to a small part of his mind where it didn't matter. But Carter, who after his initial reluctance had become a calm force of aid, was less able and snapped.

"Shut up!" He screamed loud enough to startle even the Jem'Hadar into momentarily halting his diatribe. But only momentarily. Carter kicked the Jem'Hadar in the side with every ounce of pent-up frustration he was feeling.

The Jem'Hadar lost his breath then laughed at the young man. Troi grabbed Carter's shoulders and tried to hold him back.

"He can't feel it," Julian told them both, not even looking over his shoulder.

"Then let me kill him," Carter said, attempting to control his voice.

"I'm already dead," the Jem'Hadar jeered at him.

"I can't let you do that," Bashir admonished quietly.

"Why?" Carter protested. "He's the enemy! He's going to die anyway."

"I'm already dead," the Jem'Hadar repeated.

"Because he isn't dead," Bashir responded, ignoring the Jem'Hadar. He finished what he was doing and stood up to face the young man. He understood his fury, even his hate. He sympathized with Carter and wished that the Jem'Hadar had been killed in the ambush. But he hadn't. "He isn't dead, and that makes him my patient."

The fight drained out of Carter. "Even when you can't do anything?"

Bashir laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "Especially when I can't do anything."

"I do not need your pity!" the Jem'Hadar screamed from the floor. "Nor do I need your help!"

"You can gag him though," Bashir finished.

Carter grinned. "Right away, Doctor!"

* * *

"Seven, Captain." Data almost sounded happy, Picard thought, though the android usually turned off his emotion chip during battles. It was good news though. The Security forces stranded on Deck 10, beleaguered though they were, were not only holding their own against the Jem'Hadar, but decreasing their numbers. Picard would ask about _Enterprise_ casualties later. He still had a few ships to deal with.

"Try and get some troops down there, Number One," Picard ordered, wiping the sweat out of his left eye. He had that luxury now. The battle wasn't over, but it was ending. The boarding party was contained, and of the fourteen original Jem'Hadar ships, ten had been destroyed, one as it had tried to make a kamikaze run at the _Enterprise_. A quick shot by Lieutenant Barnaby at Tactical had stopped that in time. That left only four. Four Jem'Hadar ships were still formidable, certainly, but not as deadly as fourteen. The _Enterprise_ was holding her own, dishing out more now than she was taking.

"La Forge to the Bridge. I can give you warp now, Captain," Geordie reported from Engineering.

"Hold off, Geordie," the Captain answered. "We're going to finish what they started."

* * *

The deck had stopped bucking. Bashir wasn't sure when it had happened, but he was just now noticing it. If the deck wasn't bucking, then the ship wasn't being hit. The battle appeared to be won. The comm system was still out though. He'd asked Troi to try it. They didn't want the others to hear unless they'd gotten an answer. The deck was still sealed, too. Bashir had taken Carter with him when he went to test it. He found two dead in the corridor when he left the quarters. Three more in the next corridor. One wounded, which they carried back with them. There was nothing left to do but treat the wounded and wait. Wait for help and wait for more to die.

Kovek had already died. Bashir had been there with him, even if Kovek wasn't aware of it at all. He hadn't died alone. So many had. Fourteen, if he counted the three he and Carter had found. At least two more would die if help didn't come within an hour.

Bashir knelt down and tried to concentrate on extending that time limit. He didn't hear Troi come up behind him, though he did see her kneel down beside him. "It's not your fault," she whispered.

"What's not my fault?" Bashir asked, trying to sound as if he really didn't know what she was talking about.

"Kovek," she replied, letting him pretend he didn't know. "We were all fooled."

"I should have checked him," Bashir argued, regretting it as soon as he had said it. He had let her in.

"He gave you no reason to suspect, no reason to check," she held. "I should have felt that he was in pain. But I didn't. He didn't project it."

"He controlled it," Bashir told her. "He trained all his life to control himself."

"Exactly," she said.

"So I should blame him?" Bashir asked with the intent of sarcasm, though without the tone.

"You should blame the Jem'Hadar," she replied, completely serious. "They killed him. You didn't." She stood up and walked away, not giving him a chance to answer. So many things are easier said than done, he thought as he finished up. He brushed his messy hands, only removing the most sticky aspects of the mess, against his pants leg and stood up.

It was then that the door opened behind him. He whirled and found a gray, scaled face staring back at him. A few centimeters below the face was the weapon. Bashir's own hand was wrapped around the hand phaser he didn't even remember reaching for.

It was a standoff. Except that the Jem'Hadar were rarely afraid to die. Besides, there was another one behind that one, his weapon also raised, and Bashir was sure that none of his own companions had had the reflexes necessary to raise a weapon in time.

"You are enemies of the Dominion," the Jem'Hadar spoke, "and you will die."

"Eventually," Bashir answered, matching the Jem'Hadar's icy tone.

"Fourth!" the other exclaimed, nodding toward the floor where their comrades had fallen.

"Move back!" the Fourth demanded.

Bashir shook his head and held his ground. He wasn't afraid to die either. "No."

The Fourth's head cocked to one side and narrowed his eyes. "You will stand aside or you will die."

"No," Bashir repeated, staring right back. "You want past me, you'll have to kill me. And I warn you, I'm genetically enhanced. My reflexes are faster than yours. You so much as twitch and you'll be joining your friends on the floor."

The Fourth froze. "You will not be killed if you stand aside," he tried to reason.

"I'll not be your prisoner again," Bashir reiterated. "And I'll not allow you to harm my patients."

"You cannot succeed," the Fourth argued. "You may be faster than one, but not two."

"Are you sure?" Bashir asked, thumbing his phaser to a higher, wider setting.

The blast came as a surprise and Bashir almost expected to feel the pain burning through himself. But it was the Jem'Hadar who fell. Bashir pulled back his own weapon and stepped over the Fourth's body into the corridor.

"He twitched," a familiar face reported.

"Novak?" Bashir said.

The blond Security officer smiled. "Good to see you again, Doc." Bashir didn't remember him being transferred. Must have been while he was gone. Bashir shook the moment away and found what was important. "We have wounded in here."

Novak nodded, and removed a small black device from his uniform. He held it to his mouth and spoke. "Novak to Bridge," he said. A communicator. A different one, one that could cut through the security seal. "Section 13 is secure. Request medical transport of casualties."

"This is Crusher," came the reply. "How many?"

"Twenty-seven," Bashir stepped in. "They can't all transport. I've got three critical in there."

"Where are you?" Crusher asked. "I'll send a team down. Prepare the others for transport."

Novak handed the communicator to Troi, who had stepped outside as well. "I'll leave the details to you, sir," he said. "We're still reading a few Jem'Hadar on this deck."

What followed was a whirl of activity, almost chaotic in comparison to the relative quiet of the last hour before the Fourth had come to the door. A medical team, with a cartload of equipment, a doctor, two med-techs, and three nurses, had come just as the transporter began to whisk the patients away. Bashir supplied the doctor with a PADD on which he detailed the conditions of the patients and the treatments he'd given. As the last was transported, and the three critical patients--including the gagged Jem'Hadar--were taken away, Bashir grabbed one of their med-kits and took off in the direction he'd seen Novak going.

Troi ran to catch up with him. "What are you doing?"

"The wounded were brought to us," he answered. "There might be more out there."

She didn't argue or try to stop him, nor did she turn back. In fact, her empathic talent led them to a few of the wounded they found, eight in all. One had died almost as soon as they'd found him, but the other seven survived transport. Bashir counted nineteen dead along their way. They stopped looking when main power was restored and the deck unsealed. Sensors could now sweep the deck and find everyone, dead or alive. Starfleet officers began pouring onto the deck, Security teams and Medical teams and even a few engineers.

Troi sat down right there in the corridor and Bashir joined her, leaning against the wall. "You did well," she said, pulling back her legs as another group ran by.

"You helped," Bashir pointed out, feeling the walls come back up. The doctor in him was done for the moment. The patient was taking over.

"I'm going to allow your transfer," Troi said, not even looking him. "But it will be conditional."

"What conditions?" He didn't care what conditions so long as he got back to Deep Space Nine.

"You'll see a counselor," she replied. "Regular sessions with Counselor Dax."

Bashir was silent for a moment, trying to deaden all the feelings he'd let go while treating patients. He found the balance easier now than when Sisko had come. A form of weariness, he supposed and hoped it would help him sleep through the night.

"Understandable," he finally said. It was understandable, even though Troi had no idea how awkward that would be. Still, he didn't want to worry about that just now. One step at a time. He was going back to DS Nine. He could worry about the rest once he got there.

"Hmm," Troi muttered. "I was afraid you'd say that." She stood up again and offered a hand to help him up. "I was hoping you'd argue with me."

"Does that mean you're not going to allow my transfer?" Bashir asked calmly, as if he wouldn't care one way or the other. He did care, and he had to fight not to feel it. She was leading him back down the corridor the way they'd come.

"No, I'll approve it," she smiled. "I was just wanting to get through that equilibrium of yours."

"There's no point to getting through it," Bashir held. Now that they weren't looking for any wounded, they made quicker progress. Already, they were nearing the corridor that had served as a makeshift medical station.

"You weren't at equilibrium here," Troi said, lowering her voice. Blood still stained the walls and floors. There were still crew members removing the dead from the quarters where they'd hidden.

"There was more than myself at stake then," he told her, trying to raise his voice above the whisper that wanted to come out.

"So it's you you've given up on," she concluded.

Bashir stopped, surprising her. "No," he replied firmly, meeting her eyes. It was everyone else. Even her. Not that he could tell her that. But there was something to what she'd said. "And yes."

* * *

It was the last thing he needed. "Raise shields," Captain Sisko ordered. "Target their shield generators."

The Jem'Hadar ship had come out of nowhere. Or nowhere they could see just yet. It was just at the edge of sensor range when they'd first seen it. But as they drew closer, it had come after them, weapons blazing. Sisko had been hoping for a quick, uneventful ride home. He wanted some time to himself to think things through before Bashir returned to the station. Bashir knew.

No, there was no time for that, not now. The Jem'Hadar ship fired. The _Defiant_ shuddered under the impact, but her shields held. "Fire!" Sisko ordered in return. Three phaser blasts struck the Jem'Hadar ship square on.

"Their shields are weakening," Worf barked from behind and to the right.

"Hit them again," Sisko ordered. "What about ours?"

"Better than theirs," Nog quipped. His words were witty, but his voice was tense. He'd grown a lot during this war.

"I'd like more than a comparison, Ensign," Sisko chided softly.

"Aye, sir," Nog replied. "Holding at eighty percent."

Eighty was good. The _Defiant_ could handle eighty. She had the ablative armor as well, something Jem'Hadar ships lacked. As ample demonstration, the second volley from the _Defiant_ hit the Jem'Hadar's shield generator.

"They're down!" Nog exclaimed.

"Mr. Worf," Sisko said, keeping his voice calm, "will you please destroy that ship?"

"Aye, sir."

But the ship turned tail and the phasers missed.

"Shall I pursue?" Nog asked.

"By all means," Sisko answered. So much for time to himself.

* * *

Julian Bashir studied his face in the mirror. It didn't look so different. His beard was gone; his hair was cut. It was a face he recognized, but it didn't seem to belong to him anymore. Likewise, the uniform. It was the same as he'd remembered. The zippered shirt, the gray-shouldered jacket. The gleaming commbadge on his chest. But it didn't feel like his. It felt like a lie.

The door chirped. The captain, he knew. "Come in." He turned his back on the reflection that wasn't really him and wore the uniform that no longer seemed to fit into the living area of his quarters. "Good morning, Captain, Commander." He hadn't counted on Riker being there, too.

Captain Picard smiled at him. Riker did not. "Now you look familiar," Picard said. "It suits you."

_The lie?_ Bashir thought. _I suppose it does in a way_. "Thank you, sir," he said. "I'm very much looking forward to getting back to work."

"And back to Deep Space Nine," Riker finished for him.

"That goes without saying, sir."

Picard let the smile fall but nodded. "We're working on it," he said, "It's going to be a few days at least before we can get to that sector. Maybe a week."

Bashir looked away from him, trying to contain himself. He'd almost let himself trust Picard, and Troi. Riker was another matter entirely.

"You _will_ get there," Riker assured him, and Bashir mentally kicked himself for being so transparent. "There's a war on. There are priorities."

Bashir sighed and nodded. Riker was right. There was a war on and there were things that outweighed Bashir's one puny life. "Of course, sir."

Picard waited for a moment, probably trying to decipher Bashir's mood. "In the meantime, we'd like to put you to work."

"I'd assumed as much," Bashir told him, "since you gave me a uniform."

"Doctor Crusher will be glad for the extra help," Picard went on. "She did have concerns about you practicing medicine so soon." He was silent a moment more. "She's not concerned anymore. You handled yourself well, Doctor. And I have you to thank for the lives of twenty-four of my crew members."

Bashir's head snapped up to look at him. "There were twenty-seven."

"She didn't tell you?" Picard looked concerned as well.

"I was assured that my patients were being cared for," Bashir told him. "And then I was ordered to bed. What happened?"

"I'm sure Doctor Crusher will give you a full report in Sickbay. Ensign Caleri and Crewman Sekazi did not survive surgery."

Bashir drew in his bottom lip as he tried to contain himself. But it wasn't as easy now. He turned away and balled his hands into fists. He found himself staring out the viewport.

"Counselor Troi told me that you did everything possible for them. Doctor Crusher concurred." Picard kept talking. "It was a valiant effort."

"But it wasn't enough," Bashir argued.

"Doctor," Riker stepped closer. Bashir could see his reflection in the viewport. "I can't believe that these are the first patients you've lost."

Bashir whirled back around. "I'll stop being a doctor when it stops mattering to me."

"I'll wager that that is why you're such a good doctor," Picard said, stepping between them.

Bashir sighed. "And the Jem'Hadar? What about him?"

"He's in the brig under constant guard."

"He's paralyzed."

"Yes, I know," Picard replied. "But he's also the first Jem'Hadar prisoner we've taken. He's very important to us."

"What will they do to him?"

Riker's eyes narrowed. "What does it matter?" Picard gave him a hard look, but the commander didn't back down.

Neither did Bashir. "He was my patient, too."

"He's the enemy."

"I'm fully aware of that," Bashir told him. "I'm the one who shot him."

Picard stepped forward again. "He'll be transferred to Starbase 171 and handed over to Starfleet Security. I don't know what will happen after that."

Riker must have sensed the moment over. "Doctor Crusher has asked that you report for duty at 0900 hours."

Bashir nodded, but it was Picard whom he addressed. "Yes, sir." He watched them leave. _Apologies are nothing more than words_, he decided. He'd try to avoid Riker when he could.

* * *

Sisko held the PADD. It was a succinct report, thankfully. One thing to like about Worf. His reports were always succinct. The Jem'Hadar ship had run back to its friends when its shields had been knocked out. Suddenly the odds had changed from one on one to three on one. But the _Defiant_ had managed, not only to survive, but to rescue the cargo vessel that was being attacked. The cargo ship was towed back to DS Nine, and there both she and the _Defiant_ were undergoing repairs. And there were three less Jem'Hadar vessels in the war today.

_There will be more tomorrow_, he reminded himself as he set the PADD down on the coffee table. But at least he wouldn't have to worry about them today. For now, he had other things to think about. Things Bashir had brought to mind again. Things that had grown more ugly by neglect.

He'd thought he could live with his choices when he'd decided to bring the Romulans into the war. He could blame Garak for the bomb and for the murders. All Sisko had done was manufacture evidence. He could justify it that way. Lying wasn't as bad as murder.

But the truth was uglier than that. The truth was something closer to what Bashir had said. He'd compromised himself. He'd sold too much, crossed a line. The gel was the line. Garak may have led him to it, but it was Sisko who stepped across. He went along with the lies and the need for lying but the gel was something he could have, should have said no to.

_Then how would you have gotten the rod?_ he argued. He'd needed a genuine Cardassian data rod to make an accurate forgery.

_But the senator knew it was a fake anyway_, he argued back. Would it have mattered then if the rod was genuine or not? Garak had planned all along to use a bomb if the forgery hadn't persuaded the senator. A substandard or non-genuine rod would have led to the same result. So the gel was for nought in the end.

And Sisko had not even bothered to find out where it had gone or what it had been used for. _Ignorance is bliss_. It was easier not knowing, especially after Bashir's warning, which he'd tried not to listen to.

Six million. More than six million. Bashir had known the actual number. Sisko couldn't remember it. Still, six million was more than enough. One could argue that six million was a small population by planetary standards. But six million was not a small number. And it was a number with significant relevance to Bashir.

_All the more reason for him to hate me_, Sisko thought, putting a hand to his shoulder though it had stopped hurting within an hour of leaving the _Enterprise_. How could Bashir forgive him for the deaths of six million people? He wouldn't. Though Sisko could argue he was only indirectly responsible, he knew that would still leave him an accomplice, though unknowing, of the genocide.

Genocide. That was not a word he'd ever wanted even indirectly associated with his own name. It was an ugly word. It infected a name with its ugliness. Sisko, murderer of a world. Sisko, through his own negligence, accomplice to the murder of a world. Either way, it was ugly.

"You haven't so much as relaxed since you came home," Kasidy scolded lightly as she sat down beside him. She felt nice, soft and warm. She smiled and wrapped an arm around his stomach.

He kissed her, hoping that he could relax, that he could go back to forgetting the whole thing had ever happened. But as he held her he thought of another man who might have been holding his lover when the end came on that other world. Knowing it would confuse her, but doing it anyway, he got up and walked to the window.

He'd given the Dominion the means to kill that couple and millions of others. They might have done it anyway, maybe some other way, but knowing that didn't wash Sisko clean. He'd given them the means to do it the way they did. And cuddling Kasidy felt wrong because of it. She was clean and beautiful. He wasn't fit to touch her, and he couldn't tell her why.

* * *

Troi seemed to be there every time he turned around. "Good morning, Doctor." She smiled as he entered Sickbay.

Bashir nodded to her and then found Crusher. He'd looked her up on the computer to make sure he'd recognize her, but he found he didn't need that. She had a presence to her, an air of command. And she had the pips. Three of them.

"Doctor Bashir," he said, coming to attention, "reporting for duty as requested."

Crusher smiled at him, too, and extended her hand. "Nice to have you. I hope you won't mind not having top billing."

Bashir loosened his shoulders and took the hand that was offered. "In the last six months, barring last night, the only ones I was giving orders to were crayfish." He caught Troi's eye from the corner of his vision. Her smile had gone. She looked slightly worried. "That was a joke, Counselor."

She smiled again and laid a hand on his shoulder as she turned to go. "You should work on your delivery."

Crusher waited until Troi was gone. "You like toying with her, don't you?"

"I used to tease Worf," Julian told her, letting himself relax a bit. His uniform was starting to feel right in this place. "I miss having him around."

"You teased Worf?" she asked, incredulous.

"Chief O'Brien usually helped."

Finally, she laughed. "Daring. You two must be quite a team."

_We were_, Bashir thought.

Doctor Crusher took him with her on rounds, bringing him up-to-date on all the patients currently in Sickbay. There were a lot of them. Some were his, a few of which smiled or said hello when he came by.

"So you _are_ a real doctor," Crewman Bejlis teased when they came to her.

Julian offered her a bright smile and winked. "Yeah, but don't tell anyone."

"I think your secret's out," she chuckled back. But then she sighed. "I still feel it. I dreamt last night and was surprised this morning to wake up and find it wasn't there."

Julian had been studying her chart from the corner of his eye while he chatted with her, but now he gave her his full attention. He took her one remaining hand in his. "I know it doesn't seem like it now, but you'll be fine. The prosthetic you'll be fitted with will eventually feel as natural to you as the arm you lost."

"But it won't be me." Her hand squeezed his and a tear slid from her eyes.

"No, but it _will_ be _yours_," Bashir replied, still holding her hand. "It's not the same, but it's not as different as you might think. Try and remember that."

Another tear, though she fought to keep a brave face. "I'll try," she said.

Bashir gave her hand one last squeeze and moved on with Crusher to the next patient.

Crusher paused before the next biobed and lowered her voice to a whisper. "They've been talking about you."

Bashir felt a small wash of pride. He fought it. That was the old Bashir. He got washed away by praise and attention, the opinions of others. Bashir knew now that those things didn't matter. Pride was irrelevant. _Damn_, he thought, _now I sound like the Borg_.

Crusher went on when he didn't reply. "You've had quite an impact already in your short stay with us."

"Blessing or curse," Bashir quipped, hoping to brighten the mood again. "I haven't decided yet."

* * *

The next week went by quickly enough, for most of the crew anyway. For Bashir, it dragged along. Only his shifts in Sickbay seemed to pass swiftly. All the other hours--and there were so many of them now that he couldn't sleep--stretched on like the void of space separating him from Deep Space Nine. It wasn't that he was tired. Quite the contrary. He had to wear himself out just to sleep a few hours every night. It was boredom and it was not being where he wanted to be. He was with strangers, with the exception of Data, and Data, though a friend, was one he'd only met twice. The _Enterprise_ wasn't the same as Deep Space Nine, and Data wasn't the same as Chief O'Brien.

"Are you having dinner?" Doctor Crusher asked, interrupting him as he was finishing up his daily report.

"Yes," Bashir answered, not seeing any reason to elaborate.

"In your quarters?" she asked again.

"Is there something wrong with my quarters?" he asked in return. He had a feeling she was going to ask him to eat with her, and not in her quarters. He felt uneasy. Working with strangers was one thing. Socializing was different. He was used to the quiet of his quarters.

"No, but you've been hiding in there practically since you arrived."

"My quarters are quiet."

She sat down beside him. "Is DS Nine quiet?"

She touched his hand and he had to resist his initial impulse to pull away. Actually, it felt nice. Maybe he didn't mind. "You're going to have to get used to being around people again."

"I'm around people right now," he countered quietly, reluctantly removing his hand from beneath hers.

"Okay," said and smiled. "Then consider it an order. You're coming with me. Finish your report, Doctor."

"Aye, sir," he responded, giving in. His arguments had been weak but he didn't want to tell her, or anyone, how he really felt. He didn't want to even feel.

But it was impossible to escape the stares as he rode the turbolifts or walked down the corridors on his way to Sickbay. He knew how rumors worked. Scuttlebutt was a strong thing on a ship like this, especially in war. He was quite a story, he was sure. He was a curiosity, a man rescued from a cave only to be put in the Brig and then released to work in Sickbay. And that was if they hadn't heard of his genetic background. That would probably cause more rumors. As it was, most of the stares seemed out of curiosity, something he could understand. A few, though, looked on him with open disdain. He pretended not to notice, but he noticed. He couldn't tell if Crusher, as they walked to the lounge, noticed or not. He wasn't about to ask.

Apparently, he needn't have worried about the noise level in the lounge. All talking stopped within ten seconds of the door opening as first one head, and then others, turned to see who had entered. Crusher must have noticed, too. She turned her head one way and then the other. As she did, all the heads in the room dropped. Well, not all.

"Doctor Bashir!" He recognized the voice, and, once he saw her, he recognized the rest of her as well. "Dominik told me he'd seen you last week."

"Thomas, or should I say Lieutenant Thomas. It's good to see you."

"You've met?" Crusher asked as the young woman approached.

The young woman smiled. "I used to be stationed on the _Defiant_," she replied to Crusher. She held up her left hand. "And it's Novak now," she told Bashir.

He saw the ring and gave her one of his best smiles. He even felt it a bit. "Congratulations on both counts then." By now, the room was beginning to fill with noise again, so he had to speak up a bit. "How are you?"

"Well enough with a war on," she answered. "Will you join me for dinner? I'm sitting right over--" She had turned to point to her table but stopped in mid-sentence when her previous dinner companion picked up her plate--still full--and vacated the table.

Bashir stole a glance at Crusher and saw that her face was flushing red. She was either embarrassed or angry, or both at the same time.

Novak turned back around to face him. She kept her eyes low, her head dipped slightly. She was ashamed. "Please excuse her, sir. She doesn't know you."

A glass clinked hard on the bar to Bashir's left. "She doesn't need to know him," someone sputtered. Bashir doubted either Novak or Crusher could have heard the man, though the voice was loud enough for his enhanced hearing to pick it up.

"What did you say?" Crusher demanded.

No one turned, but the room became quiet again. "She don't want to know him." The voice was slurred but loud enough this time that any normal human could hear. "We don't keep company with freaks."

Crusher was incensed. Novak was angry, too. "He's no freak," she held.

Bashir just shook his head a little. He was a freak and yelling wasn't going to change anyone's opinion anyway.

"You're drunk," Crusher said, keeping her voice calm despite the redness in her cheeks. "Go to your quarters."

"Why should _I_ leave?" the man at the bar asked, turning now to face them. "_He's_ the one who should leave. We all _earned_ our right to be here." There were murmurs throughout the room and Bashir wondered if they were agreeing with the man. It was hard to tell.

"And to wear that uniform," someone else added. Well, that was one who agreed.

Crusher must have ignored that second voice. "Because your superior officer gave you an order."

The man was too drunk to worry about protocol. "I suppose _he's_ my superior officer, too." Bashir could see only one pip on the man's collar. "Or maybe he's just superior."

"Go--"

The man wasn't finished. "His parents made sure of that."

Bashir felt more like a spectator than the cause of the spectacle. The man at the bar was inebriated and felt no compunction against interrupting Crusher, a Commander as well as a doctor. And the general populace of the room, encouraged by the drunkard's honesty and hidden by their numbers, allowed a few others to voice their agreement.

But it was Crusher who lost control. Not verbally or physically, but mentally. She argued with the drunkard. "He was a child," she said. "He had no choice."

"He had a choice about lying." That was behind them, a voice that, undoubtedly, would not have spoken if they'd been facing the other direction.

_I didn't lie_, Bashir thought to himself. _I simply didn't volunteer the information_. It was nitpicking but it had the slight advantage of being the truth.

"We had to _earn_ our place in Starfleet," the drunkard added.

"He _has_ earned it," Novak threw back.

She was one of the ones who had saved him. In a way, she had saved him more than any of the others. The others had tried but always came up just too late. Novak, or Thomas, as she was back then, had had the answer at just the right moment. She had known what to look for when he was in the gas. Without her, he would certainly have died. He knew that. And she, like the others, knew that. It made her a bit protective. So even now, when it wasn't his life, but perhaps his honor, that was endangered, she was defending him. He wanted to tell her not to bother.

She wasn't the only one, it seemed. "He saved our lives," someone else pointed out. Bashir recognized him, Tamil, the young man with the broken leg. And a few voices were brave enough to agree with that. Bashir wondered where a vote would fall. Hero or horror?

"Did he?" That one stung. Bashir turned to see Carter standing by the door. "It seems to me that quite a few of us died. He didn't save Lieutenant Versalis. He didn't save Kovek." Carter had fought beside him. Carter had tried, with him, to save the others. Carter had also wanted to kill the Jem'Hadar and Bashir had stopped him.

But Novak laughed, which threw everyone off. "You want it both ways!" she exclaimed. "You want to crucify him because you think he might be more than you are. And you vilify him when he shows he's not superhuman. Listen to yourselves!"

No one spoke out after that, though there was a lot of murmuring. Bashir decided he was tired of the spectacle, whether he was the center of it or not. He touched Crusher's elbow. "I think," he whispered, "I will, respectfully, disobey your orders and take my dinner in my quarters."

Crusher didn't look at him; she was too busy seething at the others. "May I meet you there?"

Bashir nodded and offered his hand to Novak. She took it and they took their leave. Several others, including Tamil, left behind him. Either they sympathized or were simply smart enough to leave the room.

* * *

Doctor Beverly Crusher remained behind, disgusted and ashamed at what she'd just witnessed--no, participated--in. She was an officer, a command officer, and she should not have allowed herself to get pulled into such an argument. But she was ashamed of her crew more than herself. The _Enterprise_ was the flagship of the Federation's Starfleet. Her crew should be the best of what the Federation had to offer. They should exemplify what the Federation stood for. Prejudice wasn't one of the Federation's founding principles. It was something Federation citizens tried to purge themselves of. It was a weakness, a shameful thing. And that was the shame she felt now, even though it was only a handful who'd openly spoken out against Bashir. How many others had simply agreed but chosen to stay silent?

She wished she knew the magic words that could erase all the prejudice and distrust from them but she didn't have time to plan a speech. She had to improvise and hope for the best.

"Everyone up," she ordered, not raising her voice. Only a few rose to their feet. Those that did stood at attention.

Crusher stood ramrod stiff, hands clasped behind her back. "This is not a mob," she said. "This is the Federation Starship _Enterprise_. A proud ship, with a proud legacy of tolerance and standing up for what is right. You have disgraced her and all that she has fought for. If what I have seen here tonight is what the Federation, what Starfleet, has become, then we have already lost the war."

Enough lecture. No, not enough, but she didn't know what else to say. On to practical matters. She looked around the room and found a PADD on one of the tables. She walked over, picked it up, and saved the information there. Then she cleared the screen and started taking names even as she talked. "Yes, Doctor Julian Bashir was genetically enhanced. But he's also a trained, experienced, and eminently talented doctor. If you begrudge the one, I can't change that, but remember the other. Twenty-six members of this crew are alive today because of him.

"Beyond that, he is a Starfleet Officer, a full lieutenant of five years. And that means he outranks everyone in this room except myself. He may be genetically enhanced and therefore smarter and faster than you, but he still had to earn that. Commander Data is an android, programmed with the whole of human knowledge and you don't consider his rank a gift. You don't treat him with disrespect. I expect the same treatment of Lieutenant Bashir. I can't make you like him but I _can_ make you respect his rank. No more eye rolling, no more whispering and rumors. Respect."

She finished collecting their names, thankful for her good memory and the last month's routine physicals that made most of them even more familiar to her. "And to give you ample time to make that adjustment, you're all taking a second shift today." She felt a twinge of guilt for punishing the ones who had remained silent. But there was no time to take a roll call to see where each one stood. "You can start now," Crusher added, feeling she had to be firm and to counteract the usual, friendly bedside manner they were all used to. "Dismissed."

Dishes clanked, feet shuffled, and the replicators whined, but no one spoke or grumbled. Crusher uploaded her list to the main ship's computer and reaccessed the previous data before handing the PADD to a waiting and nervous ensign. She counted, as a way to keep herself calm and poised. She hadn't gotten to thirty before she was the last person left in the room. The door opened ahead of her, allowing Geordi and two of his engineers inside. They stopped at the door, startled.

"Where is everybody?" he asked, surveying the empty but oddly disarrayed lounge.

"They had to go back to work," she offered without giving him the whole story. Ship's scuttlebutt would probably manage that in the end. She nodded once more and made her way past him to the corridor. Bashir and Novak would be waiting.


	5. Chapter Five

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith, Part I: Hope**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Five**

"Our ETA, Number One?"

Riker had been feeling the adrenaline build in his system for two hours already. "Four hours, twenty minutes," he replied to his captain. Might as well be an eternity, he quipped to himself. It helped to keep him loose, to shake off the tension, apprehension, exhilaration.

"Hostile presence?"

Data spoke up to answer that one. "In the last hour, four vessels have left the area. Three remain in orbit. A Jem'Hadar scout ship, a Cardassian Galor-class warship. . . ."

"And the Breen," Riker finished for him.

"That doesn't bode well," Picard commented, frowning as he faced the main viewscreen.

"It should make it much easier to respond to the distress call, " Riker offered, trying to keep a little optimism. Three against one was better than seven against one.

"They're leaving, Will. They've already done what they set out to do. We're too late."

Riker didn't have any words to offer. He felt the same way despite his pretense at optimism. Carello Naru was a small colony, but a rich one. The moon was a natural deposit of dilithium. Four hundred thousand inhabitants. Would there be anyone left to rescue?

"I'll be in my Ready Room," Picard said. "You have the Bridge, Number One."

Riker nodded and stood with Picard as he left the Bridge. Once the captain was gone, Riker took the center seat. He felt confident in it. He'd been there enough times over the past eleven years. Hell, he could have had one of his own years ago. He was content, under Picard, though, to wait for the _Enterprise_. Besides, if he were captain, it would be someone else leading the upcoming away team, and he was sure there was going to be an away team.

Picard studied the long-range sensor reports. The last Cardassian ship had left. Picard didn't like that. It didn't bode well for the population of the colony. They were still two hours out, but Picard already knew he'd be sending an away team. Riker would lead it, with a sizeable Security contingent, but also with a medical team.

"I'd like to send Doctor Bashir," Dr. Crusher suggested when he contacted her. "He handled himself well on the ship, but he had Counselor Troi there as a backup. He's going to need to stand on his own two feet if he's going to be CMO again."

"I don't want to risk anyone to test Bashir's resolve or his abilities."

Crusher cut him off quickly. "I don't think it a risk, Jean-Luc. He's brilliant, there's no doubt of that. But he's resilient, too. I had my doubts, at first. Not anymore."

Picard knew Bashir's record. He'd been in several battles, both on and off ships. He had the experience to back up his abilities. But the deciding factor, for Picard, was Crusher's confidence in him. He nodded. "Have him prepare a team."

* * *

Riker hid the scowl he would have worn on his own face. It wasn't good for the crew to see his displeasure. He could understand the reasoning behind not sending Crusher. The same reason he tried to keep Captain Picard from going on away missions. But there were other doctors, any of whom Riker had worked with before. But it was Bashir standing on the transporter pad with the rest of the away team.

Come to think of it, the away team, the Security portion anyway, seemed rather stiff and formal today, standing at parade rest, eyes front, not saying a word. Captain Picard ran a tight ship, but not that tight. It had to be something about Bashir.

Well, there was a job to be done, and Bashir was with the team whether he liked it or not. Best to get on with it and get it over with.

"I want this to be a straightforward mission," he said, addressing the whole team. "Sensors can't accurately penetrate the dust cloud down there, so we're going to have to reconnoiter when we get there. I want Security on the points, two in front, two behind. Doctor, you locate the distress beacon. The rest of us will scan the area for Dominion troops and local population. I want everyone armed, including you, Doc."

_Damn_, he wished he hadn't said that. He could easily see that Bashir was already armed. Well, too late now. "Alright then, let's go." He stepped up on the pad taking a place beside Bashir and just behind two Security officers. "Energize."

Without further delay, the transporter took hold of them and picked their molecules apart one by one, sped them through space to the surface of the planet, and placed each molecule back into its original location. As soon as the last molecule was there in each of them, they began to cough.

"The sensors couldn't detect this?" Bashir was the only one to speak.

Riker heard him but couldn't answer. He felt the touch of a hypospray on his neck though. A few seconds after the hiss, he could breathe easily again. Bashir, still stifling his own coughs was inoculating the other members of the away team. He did himself last, and offered no further comment.

"Could the colonists survive this?" Riker asked him. He looked around and saw only dust. Dry cracked earth, mountains in the distance, and dust.

"This?" Bashir asked, pointing to the air around them. "It's not deadly. Not to humanoids. Not for awhile anyway. Plant-life one the other hand. . . ."

Riker snapped his head around to look at Bashir. "What do you mean 'not for awhile anyway'?"

"Oxygen, Commander" Bashir answered, with a tone that, Riker felt, implied the commander's stupidity. "No plants, no oxygen. This moon is going to be uninhabitable. But not for awhile. I'm more concerned that it isn't native to this world."

Riker tried to let go of the tone and listen to what the doctor was saying. He looked at the ground around their feet again. There was grass, but it was brown and withered. "You think the Dominion did this?"

Bashir raised an eyebrow to that. "You expect an answer to that after only two minutes?" Bashir asked in return. "I'll need a little more information."

Riker bristled at the words. Bashir could have should have just said he didn't know. More than that, Riker resented Bashir for being right. They hadn't yet moved from the spot to which they'd beamed. There was only so much one could conclude from one scan with a tricorder. Then he noticed that Bashir didn't even have his tricorder out. How had he known what it was the sensors hadn't detected? He hadn't even said yet what it was, but he had chosen the right compound to inoculate the away team. Riker didn't want to ask him how he knew though. Probably smelled it with his genetically-enhanced nose.

"Well," Riker said, trying to regain the upper hand, "let's make sure you get it. Move out," he ordered.

* * *

Ezri entered the door just behind Kira. Both their arms were full. The last crates. There hadn't been too many of them. Julian hadn't kept a lot of possessions in his quarters. "Where did this come from?" Ezri asked. "I thought we sent his things to his family."

Kira set her own crate down on the table. "We sent some of it," she replied, deliberately holding back. She liked Ezri but she had to admit it was harder to talk to her sometimes, knowing she was a counselor.

Dax dropped her head forward and looked out at Kira from under her bangs. "He didn't have much too start with. And why would you keep any of it?"

Kira turned and started to unpack her crate without answering. She heard Dax's crate thump down hard on the table.

"You knew!" Dax exclaimed. "How did you know?"

"I didn't know," Kira admitted.

"The doctors!" Dax was putting it together. Kira let her. "That's why you wanted Bajoran doctors. Rotating schedules. No permanent Chief Medical Officer. You were keeping it open for him because you knew he was coming back!"

"I didn't know," Kira repeated in her defense. "I believed. I hoped. I'm not sure exactly." Despite her companion's excitement, she, herself, was subdued. And, strangely, she now found it easier, even a relief, to talk.

Ezri nodded, but she still didn't quite understand. "But there was a body."

"It wasn't his," Kira replied..

"We didn't know that at the time!"

Kira sat down on the couch, and Dax, taking the cue, sat beside her. "It's just . . . he couldn't die like that."

"What do you mean?"

"Not alone. It's something he said once, when Ghemor was here. No one should die alone. It wouldn't be right if he did. The universe wouldn't be that cruel. I couldn't believe it would be anyway. I wanted to have faith." Talking about it brought up the old pain, the one she'd felt after losing her father, Bareil, Ghemor, and then Julian, even if she hadn't wanted to believe it.

Ezri opened the crate that Kira had carried. A worn, brown stuffed animal emerged first. Kukalaka. She smiled. She placed a hand on Kira's knee and her smile widened. "It paid off," she said. "He is coming back."

* * *

They were a fairly large entourage for an away team, during peacetime anyway. But during war . . . well, that was different. Twenty men and women, all armed, marched across the parched earth toward the source of the distress signal the _Enterprise_ had picked up. Riker didn't like the look of things. There was nothing around, and yet, the transporter had set them down only a half kilometer north of the signal's source. No buildings, no trees, nothing. Just flat, dying earth.

"There!" Bashir said. The whole group stopped without even waiting for Riker's orders. Bashir pointed, forward and just to the left of the point man's shoulder.

Riker didn't see anything. "What?"

"There's something on the ground, sir," Bashir explained. "Flat, opaque, one small, flashing light."

Riker dispatched one of the security officers, Williams, to run up there. "Sir!" the woman cried out. "I think we found it."

Bashir found it. Better eyes. Better nose. What else? Riker raised his hand and motioned the group forward. They gathered around the beacon, with Riker and Bashir toward the center of the circle. There it was, just as he had said: flat, opaque, with one small, flashing light. A yellow light, to be exact, easily overlooked in the swirling dust. The whole thing was less than a meter square, but Bashir had seen it from twenty meters away.

Still, it didn't constitute much of a beacon from what Riker could tell. There were no controls, no diagrams, no markings of any kind. Just that single flashing light. "It doesn't make much sense."

"It could be a relay," Bashir offered, and Riker couldn't find fault with his tone that time. He sounded uncertain, natural and human. There was something he didn't know.

"One way to find out," Williams suggested. "We could try turning it off."

Riker bent down and tried to get his fingers around the flat panel. He hoped maybe that was a cover to it, something that would reveal the device more clearly. It seemed solid though, no cover to remove.

"How?" Riker asked, not wanting to simply shoot down her suggestion. "There's nothing but that light." Then he got an idea. He stood again and removed his phaser. "Stand back."

Everyone took two steps back and he fired. An energy shield sparkled, covering the small panel from one corner to the next.

"We can't destroy it either," he concluded. He hadn't expected it would work. It was more an experiment. "The Jem'Hadar could have destroyed it otherwise. I think the doctor is right. It's a relay. The question then becomes 'Where does the signal get relayed from?'"

Everyone looked around, and no one could see any sign of civilization. Not even Bashir. Riker was sure of it, even with his genetically-enhanced eyes. Bashir had his tricorder open but the scan wasn't working well. He kept tapping at the device, punching controls to try and force an answer.

"Too much interference," Riker reminded him. "But maybe there's a less technological approach. You were able to see the relay, maybe you can hear the signal."

Bashir snapped the tricorder shut. "What?"

"Your senses are undoubtedly more sensitive than ours," Riker explained. "You might be able to hear the signal."

"Floating through the air, I suppose," Bashir shot back, waving one hand about.

"No," Riker replied evenly, "the relay's flush with the ground. The signal is probably underground."

"In the old Westerns," Billings, one of the point men, started, "someone could put his ear to the train tracks and hear if a train was coming by the vibrations."

Bashir snapped his head around toward Billings and Riker found himself enjoying Bashir's reaction. He was incredulous.

"It could work," Riker said.

"I am not a lab rat," Bashir practically spat, "Commander."

Riker felt a twinge of guilt. There was something about Bashir just then that reminded him of Data, though Data would never have questioned the order. Still, it might prove useful. He remained calm. "No, but you have abilities beyond what we were born with," he said. "Those abilities might help us to carry out our mission. I expect everyone on this away team to carry out his mission to the best of his abilities. That includes your abilities."

Bashir glared at him, but he lowered himself to the ground. Riker eyed the rest of the team and noted a few trying to stifle their snickerings. He gave them stern looks and they straightened up. Bashir put his ear to the ground for several seconds and then sat up and removed his shoes before returning to listen.

Riker knelt down. "You heard something?" He hadn't really expected Bashir to hear anything.

Bashir sat up again and propped himself up with one hand. He didn't put his shoes back on. "No," he said. "I felt it. Take off your shoes."

"What?"

"Take off your shoes," Bashir repeated, more slowly this time. "I am fairly certain normal humans were born with a sense of touch."

_Touché_, Riker thought, though he bristled at Bashir's tone. He complied, sitting down. Just as he removed the second shoe, Bashir grabbed his wrist and forced his hand to the ground. It tingled. The hairs along his arm stood up. Bashir moved his hand over a few inches. The tingle stopped.

"The soles are rubber," Bashir explained, his tone even. Just then, he could have been Geordie giving him the answer to a riddle. "It was insulating us." He released Riker's wrist and started to reach for his shoes.

A riddle was right. "So it's coming from this direction," Riker decided, moving his hand a few inches away from the original spot, in a direction away from the relay. It tingled again.

Bashir had frozen, his hand on the ground near his shoes. "Not necessarily." He looked up and pointed to Billings. "What about over there?"

Billings dropped down willingly and removed his own shoes. "Nothing," he reported after touching the ground.

"Keep trying," Bashir ordered, "all the way around."

Two others took off their shoes and tested the ground. Riker marked the path he'd felt by scratching a line into the ground. The others saw that and did the same. Then they stood and stepped back to see the pattern. Three lines led out from the panel, one to the north, toward the mountains. The other two came from the southeast and southwest corners, and Riker couldn't see where they led. Three directions.

"Which one?" Williams asked.

Riker sighed. "All three. We'll split up. Williams, you'll take Salinger, Wworik, Manig, Kater, McGuinness, and Felder. Go southwest." He already knew which group Bashir would be in. He wasn't going to put him in command of anything. "Billings, you get Barrett, P'Hal, Sween, Fagan, and Drougut. Take southeast. I'll take the rest and go north."

* * *

"Julian may be a little late," Captain Sisko said, opening the staff meeting. "The _Enterprise_ intercepted a distress signal. Doctor Bashir was on the away team sent to investigate."

Ezri looked to Kira but Kira looked to the Prophets. She had faith.

"Depending on the situation," Sisko continued, "the _Enterprise_ could still arrive in two days."

"What is the situation?" O'Brien asked.

Sisko took a long breath. "The _Enterprise_ has lost contact with the away team."

Ezri's shoulders dropped. O'Brien shook his head. Kira, though, decided that wasn't enough information. There were many scenarios where communications could be severed without an away team being in mortal danger. And Kira thought, from the look on Sisko's face, that there was more he had to tell.

"I don't think that's cause to worry just yet," Sisko reminded them. "Kertimide radiation is interfering with sensors and communications. Still, we should be prepared for a delay. Colonel?"

Given their short tenure as Chief Medical Officer, none of the Bajoran doctors had yet been considered senior staff. Kira had voluntarily taken over the duty of representing the medical staff in that capacity. "It shouldn't be a problem," Kira replied, nodding confidently. "The Infirmary is fully staffed. I thought he might want some time to settle in anyway."

"Good planning," Sisko commented, "though he may not have that luxury. The Dominion seems to have something in mind. Carello Naru was attacked twelve days ago."

"Carello Naru is one of our largest sources of dilithium," O'Brien commented, making no effort to hide the apprehension in his voice.

Sisko nodded his satisfaction with O'Brien's train of thought. "And we stopped an attack on a dilithium freighter just a few days ago. But wait. There's more." Leaving them to put what few pieces to the puzzle there were, he gave the floor to Commander Worf.

Worf stood up and took the captain's place at the head of the table. _Five years_, Kira thought, as he began outlining the latest attacks. Five years of peace in all her lifetime. Before those five years, she might have thought that span of time an eternity. But now it seemed too short.

* * *

As he walked with the others in Riker's group, Bashir thought about the present circumstances of the moon. His mind worked backwards from the result, the contamination, looking for all the possible causes of it. And it worked forward, beginning with the natural resources of the planet and other materials likely introduced by both the Federation colonists and the Dominion. He believed that somewhere the two, backward and forward, would meet in the middle. And it wasn't until after four hours that they finally did.

So clear was the answer, but also so perplexing, that Bashir stopped in his tracks, letting everyone else continue on around him. He even pulled out his tricorder to verify it.

"What is it?" Riker asked. He'd stopped the group and come back to where Bashir was standing.

"The Dominion didn't do this," Bashir told him, surprised himself. "They left because they couldn't solve it."

Riker didn't say anything for a moment and Bashir watched as his face began to turn red. "Over here," he ordered. He was angry and Bashir didn't know what there was to be angry about.

The rest of the group turned away to give them some privacy but Bashir could see them swapping questioning looks.

Riker stepped a few meters away and waited for Bashir to join him. "You stopped," Riker said, "and then you used the tricorder. You knew."

"Sir?" Bashir asked, trying to get at what had made Riker angry. Really, there were more pressing issues. If the Dominion didn't do it, who did? Bashir thought he knew and Riker should have been asking that.

"You just plucked the answer from the air."

Bashir took a deep breath to keep himself steady. He also had to find the right words. Riker seemed to be thicker than most of the people he'd worked with in the past.

"Commander, for the past four hours, I have been thinking it out," he explained, "the different causes and contaminants. I used the tricorder to see if I was right."

"And, of course, you were," Riker said, throwing up a hand.

"Would you rather I were wrong, Commander?" Bashir asked. He felt like he was dealing with a childhood bully. Riker was trying his patience.

Riker stepped closer. His nostrils flared. "I want not to be constantly reminded of your genetic superiority."

Another breath. Riker was making it difficult to remain calm, and Bashir wished he would just let this drop and get back to the mission. "I wasn't aware that performing my duty would be such a reminder. You said everyone was to perform their duty to the best of their abilities. That is all I have done. There are more pressing--"

Riker smirked and didn't let him finish. "You are arrogant, overbearing, and disrespectful."

Bashir thought of all the things he could say. He could argue, as Crusher had, that he didn't call Commander Data arrogant just because he was smarter or faster or stronger. He could explain that he often felt as artificial as Data, more so perhaps since he was meant to be a natural human. He could say that he hadn't asked to be enhanced or that he didn't revel in it. He could ask Riker how long he should have waited until the commander would have worked it out for himself. But all that was a waste of breath. Riker was temporary, a mere figment, a blink of an eye in relation to the rest of Bashir's life, to the war, to the Alpha Quadrant. Riker's attitude was nothing more than an annoyance, and Bashir had lived with worse for far longer than he'd have to deal with Riker.

"Is that true?" Bashir asked, meeting Riker's gaze with his own. "Or is that only what you want to believe? You can't know what is inside me. Only I can. And your opinion won't change anything."

* * *

Riker was still stuck on Bashir's question, put forth so plainly, without attitude or accusation. Was Bashir as disrespectful as he thought, or was that something Riker was projecting because he expected it? Bashir had said much the same thing in the Brig. He had known he was innocent and it hadn't mattered to him that Riker didn't think so. Riker considered the man before him, whom Troi had deemed practically emotionless. He hadn't withered or cowered or even offered to defend himself when Riker had challenged him. He was cold, as barren as the land they were standing on. Riker wasn't sure which way was better. At least arrogant and disrespectful was still alive.

"Some things are more important than our opinions of one another, Commander," Bashir continued. "A good many things are more important. Like the fact that it was the colonists themselves who contaminated this moon."

_Right again._ Riker rankled at that, but tried to keep himself from using that as an excuse to hound the man before him. He risked looking like a real ass if he did, and, despite Bashir's words and Riker's opinion of him, Bashir's opinion mattered to him. He wouldn't be an effective leader if it didn't. And effective leaders carried out their missions, something Bashir was doing before he'd been called on the carpet. Their mission was the colonists, and Bashir's attitude or lack of one was something to be dealt with later.

"How do you figure?" he finally asked.

"The contamination is coming from the dilithium itself," Bashir explained, opening his tricorder. "They didn't want the Dominion to get hold of it."

"So they destroyed their entire world?" Riker asked. That didn't make a whole lot of sense. "You said before that the contaminant wasn't native."

"That doesn't mean it's Dominion, or Cardassian or Breen," Bashir returned. "It's Andorian for the most part." He handed the tricorder to Riker.

"Andorian?" Riker repeated, taking the tricorder from him. He studied the readout which probably didn't tell him as much detail as it did Bashir. He relied on Geordie and Data, or science officers, for such things. "I still don't see," he said, more softly, "why they'd turn this moon, their home, into an uninhabitable rock."

"Have you ever heard of Masada?" Bashir asked. "A Jewish town, built on the top of a plateau, defiant against Rome. They fought and withheld the Romans for a while but were eventually overwhelmed. Rather than be defeated, they committed suicide. Every last one of them. The Romans found nothing but corpses."

"But this isn't deadly," Riker said, not so much contradicting him as holding out hope. "They'd have some time."

Bashir nodded. "Several months. They've got to have holed up someplace. They'd want the Dominion to give up and leave. Then they could, one would hope, reverse the contamination and come out of hiding when the air had cleared, so to speak."

Riker looked around. There was still no sign of civilization. Wherever the colonists' cities had been before, they hadn't set their relay up anywhere near them. The cities wouldn't be much of a hiding place anyway. But the mountains? There were dark shadows visible in the rock, openings perhaps.

"Feel like going caving, Doctor?" Riker asked, knowing that the idea wasn't going to be popular with Bashir. "Let's move out!" he ordered the whole group. He started back toward the front of the column.

"Not particularly," Bashir replied behind him. "But it makes the most sense."

_Right again_, Riker thought, but this time, it was his own idea that Bashir was agreeing with. And he had to admit he liked it better that way.

* * *

He wasn't alone. That's what Bashir kept telling himself when he felt the dread rising within him. He wasn't alone. Not like before. Even if the people he was with didn't like him, it was better than being cut off from everyone. And this was temporary, a cave with an opening, possibly more than one. He wouldn't be locked in.

And there was the familiarity of it, an exact opposite to the dread. A cave was something he could deal with, something he had dealt with. The darkness would probably be more disconcerting to the others. It was an interesting phenomenon to know something could be both comforting and threatening at the same time. At once a sinister shadow, it called to him like an old friend. _They don't know me,_ it said, _but you do._

"I think I see something," Riker said, pointing his wrist beacon down the passage. Bashir followed it with his eyes. The wall at the end didn't look quite right, but then, he had to admit he'd never actually seen his cave. He'd not had any light.

But it was the snap that caught his attention more than that wall. It was behind him and he spun around too late. The dust was already flying and the stalactites were coming down. The ground shook and Bashir lost his footing. Someone screamed but he didn't know the others enough to know the voice.

A rock hit his left hand where it was braced against the floor. He fell further, sinking his shoulder into the inch of mud that covered the floor. He could see that Riker was down, too, and then he couldn't see anymore.

But he could hear the furor die down. He could feel the air clearing as the dust settled. "Is anyone hurt?" he asked, hoping someone could answer. No one did. A bit of panic snapped at him. He was alone after all.

And then someone coughed. "I'm okay," Riker said, trying to clear the rest of the dust from his lungs. He yelled for the others, "Strauf? Grierre? Compton? Enyar?"

Bashir waited, listening for voices. He heard it. "Here, sir." A shout, muffled and soft, but definite.

"I hear them," he told Riker.

Riker was quick to respond, his voice tight and fast. "How many?"

"Sound off!" Bashir yelled, then he listened carefully to pick out the voices which seemed so far away. Cut off, he decided, but it was he and Riker who were farthest into the cave. The voices came back to him one at a time. "Enyar," he repeated for Riker, "Grierre, and Compton."

"What about Strauf?"

Bashir listened again, and then reached down for his tricorder. It wasn't there. "Do you have light?" he asked Riker.

"Broken," the commander replied.

So he would have to find it. The tricorder or maybe Strauf. Using his hands and knees, and ignoring the sharp pain in his left wrist as he put pressure on it, he moved forward hoping to find one and not the other. Strauf was too quiet if he was on this side, insubordinate if he was on the other. Bashir could live with insubordinate. He didn't like the alternative. He could feel the rocks now, the stalactites that had fallen. He still hadn't found the tricorder. Then his fingers brushed against something soft and wet. He explored it a bit more and found there were others. Fingers and then the whole hand.

"I found him!" he shouted. "Here." He felt past the hand, but couldn't get to the wrist. "Strauf!" he shouted again, hoping for a response. But the fingers didn't move. The wetness was blood. Bashir knew that but he didn't want to give up hope that Strauf was still alive.

A hand touched his shoulder. Riker had found him. Bashir took his hand and led it to Strauf's. "We'll dig him out," Riker ordered.

Bashir removed the rocks he could easily move from around the protruding hand while Riker started on some higher up. Two or three of the rocks moved and Bashir could feel the wrist and a little of Strauf's forearm. There was no pulse, no response to stimuli. "He's dead," Bashir said.

"You're sure?" This time, Riker didn't sound like he was second-guessing or even angry with Bashir for being certain. This time he sounded desperate.

"He's buried, Commander" Bashir explained. "I can't even give him CPR, and we can't dig him out in time even if he isn't brain dead. He's gone. I'm sorry."

Riker didn't say anything, and Bashir wondered if he'd decided to be angry after all. Finally, he spoke, "We have to dig him out anyway, if we want out ourselves."

Bashir nodded, even knowing Riker couldn't see him. He tried pulling more of the rocks away. Then he remembered how distant the voices sounded. The wall of rock cutting he and Riker off from the rest wasn't just a foot or two thick. It had to be thicker. "Can you see Strauf over there?" he yelled.

"What are you getting at?" Riker asked. Not angry. In spite of his words to Riker, he did prefer this way.

"It's too thick," Bashir answered, listening for the other voices. "They can't see him. If Strauf isn't protruding out the other side at all. . . ."

"Then it's at least a meter thick," Riker finished.

"Maybe more."

Riker let out a long breath. "Stay put!" he shouted. "We're going to try and find another way out. If we don't find anything by morning, we'll head back here. You work on clearing it from your side." He lowered his voice. "Did they hear that?"

Bashir listened for the acknowledgment. "Yes, sir," he answered.

"Let's go then," Riker said, and Bashir even felt Riker's hand on his arm, helping him up. "The way we were headed, at least for now. We might still find the source of that signal."

Bashir took a small step forward, away from the rocks and Strauf trapped beneath them. The ground slid beneath him in a familiar way, but he felt vulnerable out in the open. One needed walls in a place like this. He tried moving sideways, sliding his feet so that he wouldn't lose his balance, and also so he might find his tricorder. After a few steps, he felt cool wetness and solid rock beneath his hand. And something hard at his foot. He knelt down and touched it. It was larger than his tricorder, with flat sides most of the way around. His med-kit. He'd forgotten that he'd dropped it, too. At least he still had his rifle. Now only the tricorder was missing.

"You still there, Doc?" Riker asked. He was farther away now.

"Just thought I should find a wall," Bashir answered, letting him know where he was as well.

"I had the same thought," Riker returned. "We should keep talking, every meter or so, so we don't get separated. You on that side, me on this."

"Yes sir."

They moved farther down the passage and Bashir remembered the odd wall he'd seen before the rocks fell. "What about the wall, Commander? The one you saw just before. . . ."

"I don't know," Riker said. "I didn't have a chance to find out anything. Are you alright in here?"

Bashir hadn't expected that question. Well, not from Riker. Troi, perhaps, if she'd been there. But not Riker. "Why wouldn't I be?" Bashir answered, hoping to put him off.

"Because we just pulled you out of one of these not too long ago."

Bashir wasn't sure then how to proceed. Was he alright? He didn't know. The rock-fall had changed things, like the cave had gotten one up on him. He was losing, but also holding his own. He had been prepared to die in that cave if Data hadn't received his signal. What difference was it really if he died in this one instead?

"I'm alright," he answered finally. "It wouldn't be my first choice, but I was in that cave long enough to get used to it. I'm used to the dark, the cold, the damp. I hate it, but I'm used to it."

"I wouldn't like the idea of being trapped in here either," Riker said, "but I think we're going the right way. That was a booby-trap. I saw the wire just as Strauf tripped it. Someone didn't want others coming in here. And since it's where the distress signal seems to originate, I'm hoping it's the colonists."

Booby-trap. Could the same trap have triggered other explosions, other rock-falls, to cover other exits? No, they'd want a way out. "There has to be another way out then," Bashir said.

"Unless they decided to follow the example of Masada," Riker added.

Bashir hoped that wasn't what had happened. He didn't want to face the thought of four hundred thousand dead. He also didn't want to give in to the idea that he was trapped forever, and this time with no replicator. The rock wall at his fingertips suddenly disappeared and he almost fell over when his footing slipped. But he caught himself in time.

"The wall's gone," he said.

"Mine, too."

"An intersection," Bashir concluded. "Which way to go?"

"Forward," Riker said. "I still want to see what was with that wall."

Bashir walked forward then, with his hands out in front of himself, expecting his fingers to reach the wall. But it didn't happen. What he felt instead was a soft tingle that moved from his fingers, up past his elbows, and to his shoulders. "Holographic?" he guessed.

"That would be a good sign, I think." Riker said. "Let's go through. Slowly."

Bashir moved forward again and the tingle met his nose and chin and slipped up over his head. Just as quickly, it fell on the back of his ears and over his shoulders until he was through it. Since it was a holograph, he was hoping to see light on the other side, but it was just as dark. "You through?" he asked Riker.

"Yeah, let's find a wall."

Bashir again found one at his right, assuming that Riker would find one on his left. "Found one, right angle parallel to the other passage we didn't go down." The wall was dry and smooth.

"Wall, to the left and to the front," Riker said. "And this time, there's no holograph."

"But there is a breeze." Bashir felt it on the back of his neck as he faced down the passage.

"I feel it, too," Riker affirmed. "But it's coming from behind me. There's a wall there. No passage."

"But if they were hiding here, they'd want ventilation," Bashir thought out loud. "There could be a vent up high somewhere. Either way, there would have to be somewhere for the air to go for it to move like this."

"Then let's follow it. You stay to the right. I'll take the left."

They moved again, following the light current of cool air. They spoke at times, little things, simple questions and short answers, just to know where each other were. Bashir still took small steps, but he felt more confident in his footing since the ground here was not muddy, and it was flat. It was a man-made tunnel.

"They must have made this when the war started," he said. "It would have taken time."

"Like a bomb shelter in a backyard," Riker agreed. "They just hoped they wouldn't have to use it."

Bashir took another step and found that there was no ground beneath him. His center of gravity was already off; there was nothing to reach for. He tried to shift his weight to his back leg, but he was already falling over into whatever it was. Then he could smell it. An awful, familiar stench. He was too busy to take much note of it though. His left arm had flailed out in front of him and there found ground once again. But it was too smooth, he couldn't hang on, even with both hands. He was slipping.

"Commander!" he called out.

"Bashir?" Riker called back. "Where are you?" To Bashir, he sounded high and behind. He hadn't fallen, too.

"There's a hole of some sort. I've fallen. I can't hold on much longer."

"I'll try and pull you up," Riker spoke quickly, lower now. He'd probably knelt to find the edge. He let out an involuntary groan. He'd smelt it, too.

"The other side," Bashir gulped, trying to breathe and hang on at the same time. The stench was overwhelming and it brought up ghosts from beneath him, faces he hadn't seen in a long time, names he never knew. Death was waiting at the bottom of whatever he was falling into. "You can't reach."

He was hanging by his fingertips, trying to gain footing with his legs. Then it suddenly occurred to him that there was little reason not to simply let go. But his fingers didn't relax. And his left foot found purchase on something protruding from the wall. It was only big enough for a toe or two, but it was enough to give him a chance to change his hold on the upper edge.

"Hold on," Riker said, "I'll try to find a way around."

Bashir didn't plan on waiting, his lungs wanted air, clean air. He had his footing and he tried to pull himself over the edge. But the little thing, whatever it was, decided not to hold him after all. It creaked once and then fell away before Bashir could even register that it had creaked. The foul air rushed up at him, growing stronger as he fell until it was all there was to breathe. He hit something jagged and uneven, and it broke beneath him, slowing his fall.

* * *

Riker tried to find a way around the hole, but it seemed to stretch all the way from one wall to the other. He heard the creak and Bashir's gasp as he fell. He reached out desperately, knowing it was useless, but hoping just the same. Then he heard the muffled crash below and the thud as Bashir hit bottom. He also saw the lights come on down there. He could see Bashir, or part of him, lying on the bottom. He'd fallen though the ceiling of what looked like a primitive turbolift. Riker could even see the cabling for it, coiled up on part of the broken roof.

"Doctor!" he yelled. "Bashir!" He had to back away to take a breath. Then he called out again, hoping that Bashir hadn't broken his neck, that he hadn't been impaled on some bit of construction torn asunder. The fall alone was only twenty meters or so, allowing the possibility that he could have survived. "Doctor!" But there was no answer, no further sound.

Riker looked up and saw that there was cabling there, too, more or less. It was hung on either side of the shaft, at floor level, within reach if Bashir could have seen it. Each cable was frayed where it had come loose from the car down below. But that was only one end. The other end was anchored to the ground, wrapped around a pulley system. Riker reached out and grabbed the cable closest to him and pulled on it to get some slack. It took putting all his weight against it to move it and he hoped that meant it would hold him if he climbed down the other way. He could just reach that side of the cable if he stretched out all the way. But then he didn't have the leverage he needed to pull on it. He couldn't test it. Not from this side.

He studied the pulley, thankful for the light below. The pulley was large and it protruded perhaps four centimeters beyond the wall. He stood and tested it with one foot, slowly putting more weight on it. It held. The other side of the shaft was less than two meters away. The pulley was halfway across. He could step over.

Of course, he could also fall. The pulley was oiled. He'd felt his foot slipping even as he tested it.

Still, it would only take a second. Bashir hadn't known about the shaft, hadn't seen the pulleys. He'd been taken by surprise. Riker could see everything. He had an advantage. And he'd only need a foothold for a fraction of a second.

That decided, he stepped as close as he could to the edge of the shaft and placed his left foot on the pulley. He took a deep breath and prepared himself. _On the count of three,_ he thought to himself. _One, two, .damn._ The light had winked out below.

"Doctor!" he called again, wanting Bashir to be alive so that he could move and trip the sensors again to turn the lights on. No answer and no light. No matter. Riker had made his decision. He knew his course of action and trusted his memory to show him where the edge was on the other side.

"Three," he said to no one in particular. He put his weight on the pulley and swung his other leg over. It found solid ground and he threw himself forward, landing with a thud on the floor.

He hadn't seen much beyond the other side of the shaft, where he now stood, except that the passage continued. He turned back to the shaft and tracing the wall with his hand, he found the cable again. He pulled, and it slipped right out of the pulley.

"No," he complained aloud. That shouldn't have happened. The cable should have supported the weight of the turbolift car in both directions. It shouldn't just release. But there it was, thick and heavy, hanging loose in his hand. He yanked it up, thinking it might still somehow be useful, if he could anchor it to something.

In the meantime, he moved to the other side of the passage and tucked the cable under his knee. He tried the second cable, but the main pulley seemed to fall away. Riker heard it crash into the turbolift car below and hoped it didn't hit Bashir. The lights, obviously tied to motion sensors, obediently winked on when the pulley hit.

Riker used the light to survey his surroundings as far as he could. The walls were smooth and plain. No light fixtures, no protrusions at all. Nothing to anchor the cable to so that he could climb down. He squinted, trying to see further down the passage. It appeared to angle off to the left. It was hard to tell though, since little light filtered out of the shaft. He could see the ceiling well enough. There were protrusions there, but he couldn't reach them.

There was nothing else to do. Waiting here and shouting weren't doing any good. Bashir was either dead or unconscious. Riker decided he had only two options left. He could continue down the passage, with the cable, hoping to find an anchor before the cable was so far out of the shaft that it would do him no good. He could also just keep going, hoping to find an alternate route to where Bashir was. Either way, he had to leave the shaft.

Still, he felt he had to try once more before giving up. "Doctor Bashir!" The lights were still on, and Bashir still wasn't moving. The lights winked out, and that was that. Riker picked up the cable he had tucked under his knee and turned his back to the shaft. He used one hand to guide himself along the left wall and around the next corner.

* * *

Bashir's nose twitched but he wasn't aware of it. He was aware, though, of the sticky wetness against his cheek. That was nothing new, his mind told him. The cave floor was muddy. There was nowhere else to sleep. Sloan hadn't left him a bed. Still, he was becoming more and more uncomfortable and he wondered why he hadn't chosen a better spot, one that wasn't as lumpy. His nose twitched again and by this time, he was becoming aware of the smell. It brought him more into consciousness, told him of the pain he felt. His head, his arm, his ribs. He flexed his fingers to try and find his hands, and his eyelids were bombarded with light. Light.

He opened his eyes and found another face looking back at him with cloudy eyes and open mouth. A small white worm squiggled out past the lips and fell to the floor. Bashir bolted upright and the movement sent waves of lightning through his head. He fell back again but saw what it was he'd fallen on and jerked back up. Bodies. Bodies beneath him, beside him, behind him. He stood, and fell again to his knees. Even then he had to put a hand down, but that shot pain through his wrist. He willed himself upright even though his head spun.

He couldn't breathe. The stench was so strong his lungs wanted to shut down rather than draw it in. Death smelled like that. He'd smelt death before.

It made him dizzy to raise his head and look out across the room he was in, but he did it anyway. There were more. They were everywhere. Women and men, human and Andorian, Vulcan and other species. A thousand, maybe ten thousand, maybe more. He couldn't count.

He slumped to his heels where at least he wasn't sitting on anyone. "They can't feel it, you know." It was a quiet voice, from behind him. Bashir spun his head around, too late realizing that he knew the voice and that no one would be there. No one real anyway. Vláďa. Vláďa had died a long time ago.

"I know," Bashir whispered, unable to raise his voice in the presence of the dead. "It's just . . . ."

"We saw it everyday," Vláďa argued. "I woke up beside one of them more times than I can count, and I wasn't there as long as you were."

"As long as Max," Bashir agreed. Max had survived more than two years in the camps. Bashir less than two months. Vláďa less than that.

Vláďa nodded to him. Bashir saw it and realized he'd never seen Max or Szymon when he'd hallucinated them in the cave. There would been no light then. Vláďa was fully visible, still dressed in stripes, his head shaved, his skin pallid. His eyes were cloudy, too.

"You'll be alright," Vláďa said. "Someone's coming for you. Just wait." Then he turned and walked away.

* * *

Martok paced around Sisko's office while the captain merely sat unmoving in his chair. "What do they need dilithium for?" the General bellowed. His Bird of Prey had fought off another attack that morning. That brought the total to six separate attacks by Dominion forces.

"We don't know," Sisko offered in quiet response. "Garak has been decrypting transmissions all week and no one is even mentioning dilithium."

Martok noted that Sisko wasn't even watching him pace. He listened and answered but he stared at the wall. The General dropped himself into a chair and thought about the captain's response. "Do you think they know we're decoding their transmissions?"

"It's possible," Sisko replied. "It wouldn't be the first time one side has fed another false information during a war. If they know--and if they'd don't, I'd say it's an oversight on their part they might want to keep Garak busy with useless information rather than tip us off."

"But this is only the dilithium issue," Martok argued. "Garak's information has been accurate for the most part. Until now."

Sisko nodded. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see if he's accurate again."

* * *

The corridor had finally angled downward. It had also turned, finally, back in the direction of the shaft. Riker held one hand pressed against the cavern's smooth wall and the other covering his nose. The stench he thought he'd smelled over the shaft had been steadily increasing as he tracked his way to where Bashir had fallen. He hoped.

At his next step, light flooded his eyes, causing him to raise his hand to shield them. He estimated that he'd been in the cave for less than an hour, so it didn't take long for his eyes to adjust.

But, just as he hadn't been prepared for the light, he wasn't prepared for what it now allowed him to see. A body--no, more than one--lying on the floor, blocking the entrance to a larger corridor. The faces were unrecognizable, marred already by decay and the ravages of insects. This was the source of the stench and Captain Picard's worst fear for the colony. The inhabitants were dead. Riker could only hope that the few he saw here were selfless defenders, those who held off attack while the others escaped. He also hoped that Bashir hadn't joined then. Riker may not have liked him or what he was, but he didn't want him dead. He was still a member of his crew.

Riker moved forward, trying to avoid the bodies and anything leaking out of them. Bashir was farther back, deeper in. He had to keep going. He could hardly breathe and he had to fight the need he felt to vomit.

He stepped over the body that blocked his path and turned the corner into the next corridor. The corridor itself was rather pleasant and completely uncavelike, no different in quality than the corridor's of the _Enterprise_, bolstering his hopes that the slaughter had been minimal. The stench, though, refused to stay behind with the bodies he'd passed.

Another corner. Another body. And another. This corridor branched off into smaller hallways and rooms, some of the doors held open by a fallen corpse. He tried to ignore the bodies and concentrate on the rooms. Bashir might be injured . . . and they might both be stuck in the cave longer than either would like. The rooms might contain useful supplies.

Several of the rooms were actually suites of quarters, small and cramped. Riker estimated there was enough space--bunks and storage--for twenty, with five bedrooms and a common area. No replicators, no immediate supplies. And, thankfully, no more bodies.

He also found a small classroom of sorts. The computer there was functional but contained little of value. No communications, no sensors, or schematics of the underground facility.

There was another door on the left wall. Riker was surprised, when he opened it, to see trees and hear the soft babble of a stream. The floor was soil and grass. Even the light overhead was soft and warm like a late-afternoon sun. But Riker was well aware that he was still deep beneath the surface of the mountain. It was an artificial arboretum, and it bolstered Bashir's theory that the colonists had contaminated their own environment. This was their preserve, and Riker could only see two walls from where he was standing. One held the door through which he'd passed. The other, to his left had to face the corridor.

The main priority was finding Bashir, not exploring the cave, so Riker made his way to the second wall. There were bodies here, scattered sporadically between the trees. He found the wall and two large cargo doors that opened, revealing the corridor and another set of doors. Those doors were already open, and they provided, perhaps, the most horrific scene he'd ever witnessed.

Here the corpses were not scattered here and there. They were packed in tight, spilling from the large room beyond the doorway. They were laid close to each other, even stacked four high in some cases. And that was just what he could see with the light from the corridor.

He couldn't breathe. There was no air but that which carried the stench of so many rotting corpses. He felt the bile rise up in his throat, and this time he couldn't keep it down. He retched there in the corridor. When his stomach was empty, he still stood coughing, which only forced him to inhale more of the foul stench. And that caused him to heave again.

He couldn't go in. He couldn't even lean inside the doorway to trigger the lights. He didn't want to see anymore.

But the lights came on for him and he froze. Someone was alive. And then his mind reasoned that this was the direction of the shaft. Bashir had fallen into the horror.

"Doctor!" he called out and felt the volume and the voice an abomination to what he saw before him. The bodies filled the room, from wall to wall, and oozed from death wounds and decay. "Bashir! Can you hear me?"

There was no answer and Riker began to realize he'd have to go in there. He didn't want to, and his mind looked for loopholes. He could be wrong about the shaft. It was farther down. A rodent could have tripped the lights.

But somehow, his legs moved anyway, and he had to set his mind to trying to find footing between the bodies. There was no floor to be seen, and when his feet could find it, it was slippery and sticky and wet. He had made it perhaps five meters in before he vomited again, and this time there was nothing to hold on to. When he could open his eyes again, he took a few more steps and could then see around the protruding corner on his left where the remains of a light turbolift lay among the remains of the people. Bashir sat on his ankles, so still that Riker began to doubt that he had tripped the lights after all.

"They killed the children first."

He'd spoken softly, but it wasn't hard to hear in the silence. Riker tried to ignore the words for now and concentrate on the speaker. He was still several meters away, but he looked alright, considering his fall. There was filth, debris from the dead, on his uniform in places, and he was holding his left wrist in such a way that Riker assumed it was injured. His face, what Riker could see of it, was ashen, but Riker was sure that he was quite pale himself. On the whole, Bashir looked alright.

Still, when he spoke, he kept his voice low. "Doctor, why didn't you answer when I called?"

At first, Bashir made no move to show that he'd heard at all. Then he turned toward Riker, just a little but just enough for Riker to see the red that covered the other side of his face. He turned back and continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Slaughtered them one at a time while their parents watched and tossed them in a stack against the wall. Then the women. But no one would talk."

Riker followed Bashir's gaze to see a large pile of small corpses stacked haphazardly against the opposite wall. His knees began to feel weak and he had to grab the wall for support. Children, just like Bashir had said. He looked down at his feet. Women. It had been men nearer the door.

"Wouldn't tell them what?" he asked not really expecting an answer or even to be heard.

"How to undo it, how to put the dilithium back the way it was."

Riker wanted to ask him if that was even possible, but then he remembered the blood on Bashir's face. "We have to get out of here," he said, turning back to Bashir. "Do you still have your medkit?"

Bashir slowly looked around himself and spotted the bag, such as it was, a few feet away. He tried to reach for it with his good hand but nearly lost his balance and had to brace himself against the floor, only the floor was covered in bodies and filth. His hand landed on what appeared to be an arm. He balked and brought it up again. Riker couldn't see his face, but he could read the anguish in the way his head hung and his shoulders shook.

Riker tried to move quickly to help him, but his movements only caused himself to slip and fall to his knees in the muck. There really was nothing left in his stomach, but it didn't stop his muscles from trying. It was on his clothes, on his skin, the decay of others. He had to leave and that meant that he had to get to Bashir. It wasn't easy but he managed to get to his feet without the use of his hands. Bashir was still staring at his hand. Troi had said he was unemotional. She was wrong. He just needed something horrific enough to bring it out.

"I never wanted to see this again," he whispered, and it sounded like a plea.

Again? "I never wanted to see it ever," Riker replied. He straddled one of the bodies between Bashir and his medkit and bent over to pick up the bag. The strap was sticky and wet, but Riker ignored it and threw it over his shoulder. He grabbed Bashir under the arms and hauled him to his feet. Bashir swayed a bit, but didn't fight him as Riker led him back out the large cargo doors.

By contrast, the air in the corridor was much cleaner, and Riker almost felt like he could breathe again. He led Bashir across the corridor and into the arboretum. There were bodies here, but they were fewer, stragglers maybe or defenders who tried to stop the enemy from reaching the rest of the population. There was room to walk here, grass and trees and life. Riker needed to see life, and he guessed Bashir did, too. There was also water where maybe they could wash away some of the death.

Riker pulled him to the stream and helped him to the ground. At first Bashir didn't move, and Riker realized that he was probably in shock--or he'd just hit his head too hard. Riker knelt down beside him and turned Bashir's face toward the light. There was a gash from his temple to his ear, but he had no idea how serious the injury was.

"You're bleeding," he said, hoping he could get Bashir thinking again.

It worked. "My head hurts," the doctor replied.

Riker braced Bashir's chest and forced him to lean forward until he could see his own reflection in the stream. Bashir raised his good hand toward his temple but stopped. He held it up to look at it and then placed both of them in the stream and began to wash them.

Riker did the same and then pulled off his jacket. "It's about the only clean thing between us," he explained as he tore the soiled sleeves away from the vest. It wasn't as easy as it looked when others did it, especially with wet hands. When he'd finally gotten them loose, he placed his ineffective comm badge on his undershirt and handed the vest to Bashir, who dipped it in the water and started to clean the blood from the side of his face.

"Concussion?" he asked Bashir.

"Possible," he replied, "cracked ribs, fractured wrist, too many bruises."

"Could be worse," Riker commented. He held up the bag. "What do you need?" He'd have to wash his hands again.

Bashir looked, but he didn't appear relieved by its presence. He even frowned. "Tricorder."

"How about a dermal regenerator?" Riker bargained.

Bashir nodded and took the instrument. Using his reflection in the water, he began to heal the gash on the side of his face. He had to lean forward and almost fell once. He instinctively set his other hand down and grimaced sharply. But he didn't fall and within a few minutes, the gash was gone. Bashir started to pull off his own jacket, which was in worse shape than Riker's. He'd fallen right into the bodies, Riker realized, which, awful as that was, probably saved him from further injury.

"I saw some quarters a few rooms back," Riker said. "I think we can be forgiven for being out of uniform under the circumstances. Will you be alright here?"

Bashir hesitated a bit and then nodded and went back to tending his wrist. He'd pulled his shirt sleeve back, and Riker caught a glimpse of a strange tattoo. It looked like numbers and poorly written ones at that.

"You don't seem the type for tattoos," Riker commented before leaving.

"Wasn't by choice," Bashir answered.

Though he was curious about that, Riker let it go. Not even wanting to look at the large meeting room, he left through the classroom.

* * *

Bashir clenched his jaw and folded his body over his knees when he felt the bone on his wrist pop back into place. His wrist burned from the pain, and the fetal position was straining his ribs. Then he remembered that the stream was there and that the water was cold. Straightening as much as possible, he plunged his hand into the water. It wasn't cold enough to numb the pain, but after a few minutes it had fallen to more bearable level. He could use his instruments then to heal the fracture.

He still wished for the tricorder. There could be internal injuries or infection--very likely under the circumstances. His head still ached, and considering that he'd been unconscious--and that Vláďa had come for a visit--a concussion was likely. All he could do at this point was give himself some antibiotics and wrap his ribs, provided he could find anything to wrap them with.

Now that he felt a little better, he could see better his surroundings. A stream wasn't unusual, but the trees, grass, and light seemed out of place. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten injured or how he'd ended up among the dead people. He did remember the moon, the transmission, and a cave. The people he could understand, and he knew who killed them and why. But this did not look like a cave.

"It's still a cave."

Bashir had expected Riker, but the voice was too young. And he didn't think Riker was telepathic. Still, he wasn't altogether surprised to see Vláďa watching him from across the stream.

"You look better now," the young man said.

"Miracle of modern medicine," Bashir mumbled.

"You could have used that before," the boy noted. "You could have helped the man in the train. Or yourself."

"It wouldn't have helped," Bashir replied, realizing the futility of healing anyone on a train to Auschwitz.

"You could have helped Andrzej," Vláďa held, staring him right in the eyes.

His cousin. Bashir couldn't look away, and he couldn't turn away from the what-if scenario Vláďa had just presented him with. Given modern instruments, he might have healed Andrzej's leg, which might have kept him from being immediately selected for the gas. Maybe having family would have helped Vláďa; maybe he wouldn't have felt he had to sell himself for food. Maybe he would have survived as Max did.

Vláďa took the rest of the thought away. "Sometimes, I think it's better he never got the number. He didn't see what we saw."

_Worse,_ Bashir thought, remembering with a shudder that sent pain to his ribs. _Just for a shorter time._ He let his gaze fall to the water. It wasn't that he'd forgotten. He could never forget. Those particular memories had subsided somewhat to a deeper part of his mind. Seeing the slaughter had brought them forward again. And probably Vláďa, too. "Not better," he finally said, "just different."

"What's different?"

Bashir looked up, not at Riker who had spoken, but at the patch of weeds on the other side of the creek where Vláďa had been sitting. He cursed himself for speaking out loud. "I have a head injury, " he said, too quickly. He'd sound defensive.

Riker showed no sign of scorn. "I realize that," he stated. He was carrying two bundles of cloth, one of which he now laid on the ground near Bashir. "So who was it? Max, . . . Simon?"

"Szymon," Bashir corrected.

"From the cave?"

He wondered why Riker would be so interested in his hallucinations. But at least he seemed to accept that it was the head injury that caused them. "Vláďa. Not from the cave. From the camp."

Riker's brow furrowed as he sat down to take off his shoes. "The camp?"

Bashir still felt like he had to defend his sanity. "They're real people, or they were. I don't make them up."

* * *

Riker set his shoes down and gave Bashir his full attention. He remembered what Bashir had said earlier about not wanting to see this, the slaughter, again.

"What happened to him?" he asked. "The Jem'Hadar killed him?"

Bashir's eyebrows pulled down in the middle. "The Jem'Hadar? No. Vláďa killed himself."

"Oh," Riker replied, as if he understood. He didn't. But he didn't necessarily like the idea of Bashir hallucinating someone who committed suicide. It was a bit too pessimistic. They didn't need pessimism right now. They needed optimism.

Bashir must have caught his misgivings because he defended Vláďa, whoever he was. "He had every right. Every reason. You can't know. You weren't there."

Riker didn't want to argue about the hallucinatory person, but he was even more confused now. He knew Bashir had been a prisoner of the Jem'Hadar, but he'd seemed adamant the Jem'Hadar weren't the cause. "Who was he?" Riker asked, keeping his voice soft to try and calm the doctor.

"A young man," Bashir answered, settling back down. "We were on the same train."

_Train?_ Riker thought.

"I barely knew him," Bashir continued. "But I had promised his cousin I'd watch him."

Apparently he thought he hadn't done a very good job. Was it guilt that made him hallucinate the boy instead of someone else? "What happened?"

Riker was surprised by the answer, said so easily and lightly as if it were nothing. "I was tortured," Bashir said, "and then I was transferred to another block. I didn't even know he'd died. Max didn't tell me."

So Max was from the camp--whichever one that was--, too. And how had he found out, if Max had kept it from him? "Why did he kill himself?"

Bashir shrugged and then pointed back the way they'd come. "Too much of that, maybe. Too much death. Too much suffering. He reached his limit and found a quicker way out." He started to pick up the clothes Riker had almost forgotten he'd brought. "He likely wouldn't have lasted anyway. Max was the only one of us who did."

Bashir was talking, perhaps more than he had for Troi, but the more he said, the more confused Riker became. How could Max be the only one to survive when Bashir was sitting right there? "You lasted."

Bashir started to take off his jacket. "Then why is my name on file at the Holocaust Museum in Washington? I was gassed along with the others."

Holocaust. That explained the tattoo, the camp, the train. "Not by choice," Riker repeated Bashir's earlier words out loud. "How?" he asked, feeling as if he were prying but unable to stop.

Bashir had changed into the clean shirt and was trying to stand to change his trousers. He swayed a bit and Riker stooped to help keep him steady. "Changeling. Evil, sadistic, warped changeling," he replied, and nothing about those words were easy.

Riker was curious to know more, but he also felt he needed to diffuse the situation. "Ah," he said. "For us, it was the Borg. Some of us were on the ship, fighting it out. But I was on the _Phoenix_ with Zephram Cochran."

"I haven't had much luck with time travel. The first time I ended up in the Bell Riots of 2024."

"You should probably stick with this century," Riker said, helping Bashir back down. He fished Bashir's comm badge from his discarded and soiled uniform.

Bashir took it and put it on. "Haven't had much luck with that either."

"Surely some of it's been good," Riker offered as he changed his own clothes. "Back on DS Nine perhaps."

"It's hard to see that now," Bashir replied. He was staring down into the stream.

Riker waited until he had his shoes on. "Well," he said, standing and offering his hand to the doctor, "that will be a little easier once we're out of this cave."

Bashir stood, with a wince, but his brow furrowed. "Did we find the source of the transmission?"

Memory gaps. Not the best of signs, but probably not unexpected either. "You mean before you fell three stories down a turbolift shaft? No."

"I did?" Bashir said, probably to himself.

Riker nodded and then refocused on what was before them. He hesitated. It was easier here, with the doors closed, the trees and grass.

"I've been through all the rooms back that way." He pointed back toward the classroom. He let the rest go and took a few steps toward the large doors. They were here, too, in the grass, among the trees. Riker kept his head up, trying not to see them. But when he looked back to see if Bashir was following, the doctor's gaze was down, looking each one in the face. His chin quivered ever so slightly, and Riker wondered if he was seeing his friends more than these strangers.

* * *

He still felt dizzy, but he could walk. He hadn't expected to see them here in the arboretum, but it wasn't so much of a surprise. Only so many people could fall in that one room. Their faces had already started to decay, but he looked anyway. Someone should bear witness. Someone should remember.

The large door opened, and both he and Riker took an involuntary step back against the wave of foul air that rushed in at them. The bile rose in Bashir's throat, and he pushed it down again. He told himself this was nothing new. But it was. Auschwitz had been death and corpses--and it had had the smoke. But, in the time he was there, it never had the concentration, the bodies left to rot in such close quarters. The closest was probably the train, where the bodies were not removed at all during the trip.

Riker moved off to the right, and Bashir followed, trying to construct a lifelike face for each corpse that he saw. Most here in the corridor were young, and they'd fallen in such postures to suggest they'd tried to fight the onslaught of Jem'Hadar. Some wore crisp uniforms, stained now, but once immaculate. Security, Bashir guessed.

They went into each room, and Bashir was relieved to see the number of bodies taper off as they left the large room behind them. He could still smell them, and, if he closed his eyes, he could count every one of them from memory.

There were more quarters here, a chapel, a large washroom where he and Riker helped themselves to soap, and a hydroponics facility. After another hour they found the medical bay--if it could be called that. It was no bigger than a closet, but it had a biochair, stacks of supplies, and, more importantly, a working replicator.

Bashir scanned the shelves that lined the walls and started filling his medkit with bandages and medicines.

Behind him, Riker worked at the replicator. "Here," he said, touching Bashir's shoulder. He handed the new tricorder he held to Bashir and motioned to the biochair. "Check yourself out. I'll be right back."

Bashir wondered where he was going, and had a brief moment of panic. It passed quickly enough once he reasoned that Riker had had plenty of time to leave him behind while he was unconscious.

Avoiding his left wrist, he sat down. The biochair and the instruments around it lit up and hummed to life. He unfolded the tricorder and took note of the results. Three cracked ribs but no major internal injuries.

"How is it?" Riker asked, having returned with a bag. He went straight to the replicator and started replicating field rations.

Bashir's stomach turned at just the thought. "I won't eat that," he stated, ignoring Riker's question.

Riker stopped and turned fully around to face him. "We didn't expect to get stuck down here. We're all going to get hungry."

Bashir pushed himself off the biochair. The sudden change in altitude made him dizzy, and, for a moment, he thought he saw Vláďa beckoning to him anxiously from the door. Bashir spoke to Riker. "I'd rather starve."

In front of him Riker blew out a long breath. His voice was quiet, his words carefully chosen. "There's a reason they chose Starfleet rations for your replicator."

"Commander," Bashir replied, choosing his own words, "I'm a doctor. Please don't lecture me on their nutritional value."

Another long breath. "I would have thought, with your background, you'd never want to go hungry again."

"Some things are worse than death."

Riker smiled, "Starfleet field rations?" he asked, chuckling slightly.

Bashir smiled, too, realizing it sounded silly, but he wasn't about to back down. "Among other things. Besides, we're not entirely without alternatives."

Riker threw his hands up. "Okay," he said, still grinning, "you win. Meals are your responsibility." He handed Bashir the bag, and the smile disappeared. "Now answer my question. How's your head?"

"Mild concussion," Bashir replied as he and Riker tried to trade positions in the confined space. "It could have been worse."

He started punching in commands to the replicator. It churned to life and he brushed the resulting rations into the bag. Even the weight of the half-filled bag caused soreness in his wrist, so he made one last request to the replicator and threw the bag over his shoulder.

"Ready?"

Bashir wrapped his wrist with the splint he'd just created and turned to go. "Ready."

Riker held out a hand to take the bag, and they stepped back out into the corridor.

They went on as they had before, checking each room, each crossing corridor. Fortunately for them (though not for the colonists) most of the cross-corridors only branched off in one direction. There was one though that went to the left. Riker decided then that they would split up and meet back in fifteen minutes. Riker took the right, and Bashir moved off to the left.

The left corridor wasn't much different from the main one from what he could see. More rooms like all the others, more storage rooms with supplies for the colonists.

He was in one of those rooms when Vláďa came to him again. He stood in the door as Bashir turned to go. "I heard something," he said. "Someone's here."

"I didn't hear anything," Bashir told him. Vláďa had to be mistaken.

"I still hear it," Vláďa held. "Up ahead." He pointed down the corridor in the direction Bashir was progressing. He kept looking in that direction, and Bashir wasn't sure if the boy was concerned or afraid. Then he left, heading toward whatever he'd heard.

Curious, Bashir stepped out the door, but Vláďa had disappeared. He closed his eyes and listened carefully but heard nothing but silence. He opened his eyes, and Vláďa was waving at him from three doors down.

Bashir gave a moment's thought to the two rooms he'd be skipping, but Vláďa called, with urgency in his voice, "This way. In here!" Then he tucked himself back inside the door.

The door was closed, but it opened as Bashir approached. This room was different than the others. It was noisy, for one thing, and one wall was lined in machines. He wondered why would Vláďa have drawn him to this. And he wondered how Vláďa had managed to hear what he himself had not. The room was apparently soundproof, since he'd heard nothing before opening the door.

He studied the machines and the pipes and cables leading away from them along the ceiling. The largest controlled power to the cave. He could even pull up a schematic of the entire complex. Another controlled the water supply, using the stream as the source and then channeling the water through pipes to all the washrooms, the main assembly, and the medical area. The third managed ventilation and filtration and utilized the largest of the pipes--ventilation ducts--overhead.

_We only have to follow the air,_ he thought. They could trace the ducts back to their source. But as he visually traced it upward from the machine, it led directly into the wall next to a large screen-covered vent.

He went back to the power grid and, by comparing it to the water schematic, began to get a sense of the cavern's layout. Riker said he fell down a turbolift shaft. He found the shaft and some sort of doorway a short distance from it on the upper level. He didn't remember a doorway, but that had to be the way he and Riker had entered. That way was blocked. He did remember Strauf's death.

So he went back down to the lower level and his present position. If there was another way out, it would be away from the turbolift. The doorway above was unusual in that it drew more power than four ordinary doors. There was another such drain at the end of the corridor, though he hadn't seen anything from the corridor except an ordinary wall. Still, it was the only other such door. It had to be the exit.

* * *

"They've been gone for hours."

Grierre was, for the most part, ignoring the chatter. The others were bored. He would have been, too, if he wasn't in command. He'd been in command only a handful of other occasions, and then for only short periods of time. He hadn't prepared himself for this. _You're a Starfleet officer,_ he chided, _in war, no less. You should always be ready._

So much for slogans. He wasn't ready, even if there were only two others under his command. When they'd beamed down they were twenty, and he wasn't second or even third banana. _They_ had been sent to lead the other two groups. Hell, he hadn't even been second in this group. The new doctor had seniority. Strauf, too, by a month.

Strauf. Grierre glanced back over his shoulder at the pile of rocks that had buried his friend. They'd tried to clear the rocks, but more fell from above when they did. Strauf would have to stay.

He would have been better, Grierre decided. He hadn't felt the need to prepare before taking charge. He had said he thrived on the adrenaline.

"Maybe we should look for an alternate exit."

"We're on a mountain. There could be a dozen openings that don't even lead to the same passages."

Grierre half-listened and was content to let them discuss it.

Then Enyar stood. "It's better than just sitting here." He started toward the mouth of the cave where Grierre was sitting.

The movement roused Grierre from his self-consciousness, if not from his self-doubts. "Commander Riker said to stay put, so we stay put." Actually, he'd ordered them to dig their way in, but they'd tried that. What had fallen was too heavy to lift, and phasers only caused more to fall.

Enyar stopped and looked down at him. "Grierre--"

Grierre stood, too, and met his gaze. "Lieutenant Grierre," he corrected. "And we're going to hold position here so the commander can find us."

Enyar was annoyed that he'd pulled rank. He was a lieutenant, too, and they'd often worked the same shift. "We're not the ones who are lost, sir."

Grierre kept his patience. "No, but we're their point of reference."

"If we go poking into openings, we'll likely all end up lost," Compton added, again a voice of reason.

Enyar didn't look happy, but he lost the combative tone. "So we just sit here?"

Grierre sat down again and let his sight rest on the murky valley below. "We just sit here."

* * *

O'Brien lifted the cover in one big motion. Dust flew into the air and he sneezed, but beneath the cover and the settling dust, the Alamo waited. He'd almost had it destroyed. He was glad now that he hadn't. Keiko wasn't happy that the model was back in the living room. He could tell, though she hadn't said so. She wouldn't deny him now that Julian was coming back. At least not for a few weeks.

There were a few sections that needed recementing, but otherwise the Alamo was in good shape. Which was good, considering the price he'd had to pay Quark to store it, even with the Julian Bashir memorial discount. Of course, the discount had been revoked upon the news that Julian was not really dead. Quark had forced O'Brien to pay back rent just to get the model out of storage. O'Brien argued and haggled, but in the end, he paid. Friendship didn't have a price.

He spent two hours just counting all the little figures. He started with the nondescript ones: Mexican soldiers, unnamed Texans. They were easy enough. And they seemed to be all there. Then he'd searched for each of the characters, the named historical figures: Santa Anna, Jim Bowie, Davey Crockett and the others. The last one he found was Colonel Travis, Julian's character.

* * *

They'd fought the battle of the Alamo hundreds of times. And Julian had come close a few of them. But still Santa Anna had won. O'Brien had kept the model up after Julian disappeared, but he'd removed it once the word came that he'd died. All of it. Except for Travis. Travis had gone to the bedroom, into the little box where O'Brien kept his mother's ring. He'd forgotten he'd put it there. He'd forgotten.

He should have tried harder, he told himself. When Julian was just missing, he hadn't done anything to try and find him. He didn't ask Captain Sisko for a runabout to track him down. He didn't pester Odo to keep looking for clues when he closed the investigation. He didn't question the report of Bashir's death, as his wife had five years before. Then it had been aliens reporting his and Bashir's death, this time it was Starfleet. Why question Starfleet?

Because they'd lied or been lied to. Julian was alive, marooned alone in a cave for nearly six months. He'd been kidnapped from his own quarters and taken by Section 31 with no one to stop them. No one did anything to stop them. Odo couldn't find a trace of the transporter or of anyone else's presence in Bashir's quarters. The sensors didn't detect a transport. There were no unidentified ships in the area. Starfleet Intelligence identified the body, and the investigation was officially closed.. And no one questioned it. No one who knew Julian had requested to view the body. No autopsy was performed.

Looking back, O'Brien realized how easy it would have been. They'd only have had to look at the body's left arm. Julian had kept his number tattoo. Or his left hand, for the reconstructed bones. A DNA test. Julian's DNA was on file at Starfleet Medical. All it would have taken was someone to push for a DNA test. No one did. Not even Julian's best friend.

Hell, O'Brien had felt relieved just to have closure. They probably all had. Three months ago they'd sent a fake Julian Bashir to his final rest, and they felt better just to have their uncertainty taken away. They missed him, sure. It hurt, but they had gone on. They could go on. Someone somewhere declared Bashir dead, and they'd all breathed a sigh of relief. They could stop looking, stop worrying, and get on with the mourning.

They'd given up. O'Brien had given up. He'd given up while Julian was still trying to decide if he should wager starvation on coaxing a replicator into transmitting a message to an android he had no idea how to locate. It was like he'd acknowledged the Santa Anna's red flag. And O'Brien might as well have been Santa Anna.

It wasn't dusty, but O'Brien dusted Colonel Travis off anyway, and placed him carefully along the East Wall. The others he left in a pile. Travis was the one that mattered.

* * *

It had been six hours since the Enterprise had lost contact with the away team, and five hours since Geordi and Data began to modify the probe. The probe worked on the same carrier frequency as the colony's distress signal which even now was still penetrating the kertimide cloud that swallowed up all other transmissions. The distress signal had to be abnormally strong, Geordi had explained, and it would take time and a lot of creativity to build a transceiver inside the probe that could match that strength. Picard was getting anxious, and had just called for the third time to inquire about their progress. He didn't mean to micromanage, but there was something about the situation on the moon that unnerved him.

"We've got it figured out, Captain," Geordi replied, sounding more excited than annoyed. "It's just a matter of pulling it all together now."

"How long do you estimate?"

"Hour, hour and a half tops."

"Good to hear," Picard said, though he'd hoped for sooner. "Keep up the good work, Commander. Picard out." So he was back to waiting.

* * *

Riker checked the time and scanned down the main corridor, trying to decide if Bashir would disobey orders and go on without him or if he'd just lost track of the time. Taking a gamble that it was the latter, he started down the left corridor. He moved quickly, assuming Bashir had already scouted out the earliest ones. He paused at each room only long enough for the door to open. He glanced in, called Bashir's name, and, when he saw and heard nothing, he stepped back and let the door close again.

It was the eleventh door, sixth on the right, that made him pause. There were no beds or wardrobes here, no shelves for storage. There was also no Bashir. But there were glittering lights, display screens and consoles. The room hummed with sound he hadn't heard from the corridor.

_This is it_, he thought. He checked the displays. This was the transmitter, still transmitting the distress signal. He thought about contacting the _Enterprise_ now. They knew what had happened to the moon and the colonists, at least this group. It was time to get back into contact with the other two teams and leave this dying rock.

But he had to find Bashir first. He left the room, and the hum was cut off when the door closed behind him. He checked the next room on the left and then came back to the right, finding more storage rooms but not the doctor. He alternated side to side giving each room the same cursory check before moving on.

Another hum met his ears as he opened one of the doors near the end of the corridor. And there was Bashir, standing in front of a large computer console. He'd heard the door and looked up.

"You're late," Riker scolded, "and you skipped some rooms."

"I heard something," Bashir replied, "and came here to find it."

"The rooms are sound-proof," Riker argued. "What did you hear?"

Bashir bit his bottom lip, caught in a lie. "Vláďa mostly."

"Ah." Riker smiled, hoping it wasn't a completely friendly smile but also not derisive. "You followed an hallucination."

Bashir's lips turned sheepishly. "He said he heard something. He was quite insistent."

Now Riker's smile was genuine. "I hate to break it to you, but hallucinations can't walk down the hall in front of you, telling you what's around each corner. They don't work like that." He let the smile go. Back to business. "Besides you missed the transmitter."

"Oh." Bashir's eyes dropped, but then darted back up again. "But I found the way out."

"Oh." Riker hadn't expected that, but it was good news. "Where?"

"Do you remember some sort of door at the upper level?"

Riker nodded. "Holographic. That's how we got in."

"That explains it then." Bashir walked out the door and into the room across the corridor. Riker followed, but only got as far as the door because Bashir was coming out again. He had a small container in his hand which he lobbed toward the wall at the end of the corridor. The container went through the wall and disappeared. "That does explain it."

"It certainly does," Riker agreed, still watching the wall. It was another hologram. "Good to know. Now, let's see if we can't contact the _Enterprise_."

"No!"

Riker spun around at the vehemence in his voice. But Bashir looked just as surprised, and he was looking toward the door to the computer room, which was standing open on its own.

"Why not?" Riker asked, still confused.

"Why not what?" Bashir returned, trying to cover his surprise. He didn't take his eyes off the door though, and the door didn't close.

"You shouted," Riker answered.

The surprise returned, only now Bashir was staring at him. He shook his head. "Hallucinations don't work like that."

"I'm not hallucinating," Riker said.

"I thought I was."

Riker lowered his voice and watched the still open door. "Are you telling me that was Vláďa?"

"You don't see him, do you?" Bashir asked.

Riker looked hard at the door and the room beyond, not that he wanted to see the boy. "No, but something is holding the door open."

"He wants us to go back in," Bashir said.

"What if he's not your hallucination?"

"I'm not sure but he's been right so far."

Riker gave it a moment's thought and then nodded. "Could he be a changeling?

"Not if you can't see him," Bashir whispered, and then he stepped into the room. Riker followed him and they both stopped just inside the door.

* * *

Bashir closed his eyes and tried to block out the hum of the computers. Vláďa had disappeared just as he and Riker had entered. He couldn't show them where the sound was.

As it turned out there were three hums, one for each of the machines. And as he concentrated, he could separate out little beeps and clicks, the sound of his own breathing, and the whisper of air from the vent. Then a brushing, very soft, like thick cloth on metal, and the whisper of air began to whistle.

When he opened his eyes, he was already looking straight at the vent. He took a step toward it and saw movement from the corner of his eye. But it was just Riker slowly removing his phaser from a pocket. Bashir tilted his head toward the vent and stepped closer. There were some crates near the wall, so he moved one over, trying to make as little sound as possible. He stepped up and peered into the vent.

It was dark. Just dark. But there was still the whistle, louder now to his ears though still just barely audible. He stood very still, listening and letting his eyes adjust to the darkness inside the vent. After a few minutes, he could distinguish variations in the darkness, shapes. And one of the shapes was a head. A small head, but a head, set upon small shoulders.

Too small to be Jem'Hadar, he thought. It was a child. A survivor! "You can come out now," Bashir urged, speaking slowly and quietly. He didn't want to frighten the child.

Riker stepped toward them. "What is it?" he whispered. Bashir held up a hand to stop him. The child had moved farther back.

"It's alright," Bashir tried again. "We're not going to hurt you. We're from Starfleet. We're here to help."

The movement stopped. The child was listening. "I'm Julian," Bashir continued, "and this is . . . ." He looked to Riker, not remembering his first name.

"Will," Riker supplied, putting away his phaser.

"You can come out now." Bashir offered his hand. "They're gone." He had to wait a few minutes, but then he felt the soft flesh of a child's hand in his own. Bashir pulled back gently as the child scooted forward until his young face appeared in the light. His face was pale, his features gaunt. He didn't yet commit to leaving the vent. He peered out with grown-up eyes, full of distrust and wariness. He couldn't have been more than ten years old.

He stared hard at Riker and at Riker's phaser. Riker turned the collar of his jacket so that his comm badge was visible. The boy turned his gaze back to Bashir, and Bashir did the same, realizing too late that they didn't much look like Starfleet officers.

But the boy seemed satisfied. Still saying nothing, he reached for Bashir's shoulder. Bashir pulled him the rest of the way from the vent and handed him to Riker who set him down on the floor.

"What's your name?" Riker asked, but the boy only stared back at him.

Bashir had an idea, remembering the early days of his own childhood. He turned over the back of the boy's collar. "Danny," he said, reading the hand-written letters upside down. When Riker raised an eyebrow. "My parents used to write my name on my collar," he explained, " in case I wondered off and got lost."

"That happen a lot?"

"Before I was changed? Yes. He's traumatized," he said of Danny, who had simply moved his head back and forth with the conversation. "Considering what happened back there."

Riker nodded. "He's a survivor," he said. "Let's see if we can't contact the _Enterprise_." He held out a hand, and to Bashir's surprise, Danny took it.

* * *

"Sir!"

It was Compton who saw them first. She'd always had good eyes. Grierre followed where she pointed. Dark figures were moving in the dimming haze of the valley below. He tried to separate them. "Ten?" he asked.

"I count twelve."

Grierre took her count to be the more accurate. "None of our parties had twelve."

"Unless the other two joined up," Enyar offered, coming to crouch beside them, "to come looking for us."

"I don't want to count on it," Grierre decided. The dark blobs were dancing in and out of view, or cover. But they were approaching rapidly considering the distance. "Check your weapons and find secure positions."

Compton nodded. "They have the advantage in numbers but we have the high ground.

Enyar tried to make light as he checked his phaser rifle, "It's only four apiece."

Grierre didn't mind. He knew Enyar could, at times, be a hot head, but he was always focused in battle. Enyar had even killed four Borg during their last incursion, one of which had been his best friend. "Is that all?"

* * *

Bashir frowned and tried another configuration. The same annoying chirp met his earns. He'd heard it seventeen times already. No matter how he reconfigured the transmitter, he could not alter the distress signal except to distort it. Riker had recorded a message and left Bashir to send it. He'd brought up the replicator transformation as justification for his faith in Bashir's ability to reconfigure this one.

Frustrated, Bashir closed his eyes, visualizing the transmitter in the dark. He started with the outer casing, peeling back layers one at a time in his mind. But it was murky, unfamiliar. Federation technology but not Starfleet technology. Then it hit him. He was taking apart the wrong thing.

He brought the transmitter back to its original configuration and opened the channel so he could once again hear the original message. Just when it began to loop again, Bashir recorded it on his tricorder. He closed the channel again so he wouldn't be distracted and then played back the recording. He listened carefully. Then he slowed it down by ten percent and listened again. It took three tries before he heard the breaks. Fifty-nine of them, separating the thirty-second transmission into sixty half-second segments.

He went back to the receiver and, instead of tapping into the actual distress signal, configured it to play only the prerecorded outbound message that Riker had wanted to replace. What he heard was incomprehensible, staccato syllables a half-second long and a second apart.

"What's that?"

Bashir had been concentrating so hard that he didn't hear the door open. "That's what this transmitter is transmitting," Bashir answered.

Riker steered the little boy back into the room. "That's not the distress signal?" he asked.

Bashir shook his head. "No, it is. Or rather it's one third of it."

Riker dropped down onto a crate. "Which third would that be?"

"The first, I think," Bashir replied. "Three directions, three transmitters, one transmission. They alternate every half-second."

"Can we change it?"

Bashir had been trying that for awhile. "This one transmitter alone isn't strong enough to penetrate the interference."

Riker glanced at Danny who seemed uninterested in the whole affair. "But you said the three were alternating."

"With the message," Bashir explained, checking the tricorder to make sure he was right. "But they're all broadcasting. They just broadcast silence the other twenty seconds."

"So the _Enterprise_ won't understand our message," Riker concluded. "What about something non-verbal? Like how you contacted Data."

Bashir dismissed that almost immediately. "It was just a pattern," he said. "Enough to make him curious. He had no idea it was me or what the transmission was about. We need the _Enterprise_ to come and get us. We need something specific."

"What about SOS?" Riker suggested. "You know, Morse code? It's short but specific enough to say we need help."

Bashir thought about that, tapping the three letters on his knee. Too slow. He tried again, faster this time. It could be done, each letter taking a half-second. Probably too fast for a human, but not for Data "We'd have to break it up," he said. "One letter per turn or it will get drowned out by the other two transmitters."

Riker slapped his knee and stood up. "It's a start," he decided. "Just enough to make them curious. Maybe they'll find a way to contact us."

Bashir nodded and set to work. It took less than a minute to record a looping SOS message and replace the older signal with it. That finished, he joined Riker and Danny at the end of the corridor. The wall at the end shimmered as they passed through it, and Bashir again found himself plunged into darkness. Fortunately Riker had found a lantern of sorts and he flicked it on. But instead of a passage out, Bashir saw a rough and jagged wall of rock. He checked his tricorder and found the passage thirteen meters up. "It's above us," he told Riker, pointing.

"I guess we don't get a turbolift this time," Riker quipped. "Think you can climb?"

Bashir took off the splint and tested his sore wrist, but nodded despite the ache he still felt. "We haven't got much choice."

Riker held the lantern up in front of the boy. "I don't think he'll be able to do this himself. I'll take him. You take the bag and follow-up." He handed Bashir the lantern and bag, though he removed one of the ration bars and held it out to Danny. "Last chance. You sure you don't want it?"

Danny shook his head and Bashir guessed he still hadn't spoken. It wasn't surprising. Danny wouldn't be the first child to stop speaking after such a trauma. Riker tossed the bar back to Bashir and crouched down. Bashir steered the boy until he was piggy-back on Riker and then helped the commander to stand under the extra weight. Riker then started up the wall, which perhaps wasn't as impassible as it first appeared. Still it would be difficult with the shifting of the lantern swinging from Bashir's arm.

_Rock climbing is new_, he thought, trying to make light of what was actually an ordeal. He still felt dizzy, but he wanted out of this cave as much as he had the other one. He ignored the swinging light for the most part and trusted the rest of his senses to find the next hand- or foothold.

Riker was just above him, and little pebbles and dust tumbled lightly down in his wake. "Not much of an escape hatch," he commented. "They couldn't have expected to evacuate anyone this way."

"They didn't plan on evacuating," Bashir pointed out. He held himself to the wall with his toes and the fingers of one hand while he felt for the next edge with his other hand. "This is where they evacuated to. They meant to keep the enemy out."

"Didn't work," Riker grunted. "How'd they get in without tripping the booby trap?"

Just then a shower of fine dust fell down on Bashir and he was glad he'd shut his eyes. He opened them when he heard the gasp. Looking up, he saw a jacket rushing toward him, slightly to the left. The jacket was attached to arms and legs and the rest of the boy. By the time all that registered, Danny had fallen into Bashir's left shoulder, loosening his hold on the wall and knocking the lantern off his arm. The lantern crashed to the floor, plunging them once again into darkness. Danny, however, did not.

Bashir gripped the boy's collar in his fist and used all his strength to push his body close to the wall with nothing but his toes and four fingertips. "Grab the wall!" he ordered even as Riker was asking about the boy.

"You caught him?!"

Bashir ignored him. Having already fallen once that day, he didn't care to do so again.

Almost immediately, the weight dragging on his arm disappeared, though he still had his fist on the boy's jacket. He wasn't sure what to do then. He couldn't let go of the boy, and he couldn't climb with only one hand. His fist lifted and he realized Danny was climbing. Tentatively, he let go, keeping his hand hovering over the boy's back. He could feel the jacket brush against his palm as it moved.

"There's light up here," Riker called down. "Just take your time. Don't try to rush it."

Bashir didn't, though he could have gone a little faster. He wanted to stay below the boy in case there was another slip. He kept track of Danny by sound, and used the feel of the rock and Riker's voice to guide himself upward.

As he edged closer to Riker's position, he could begin to sense shadows in the rock, the vague definition of Danny's form above him, and the silhouette of Riker's head. There was light up there. Danny reached Riker first, and the commander pulled him over. Satisfied the boy was safe, Bashir, now with a steady, if incredibly dim and indirect, source of light, ignored the minor cuts on his fingers and sped up his climb.

When he reached the ledge, he could see the light. It came from around a corner. The ledge was really the exit of a tight crawlway, but the light, little as it was, had a natural feel to it. And the air didn't smell right. They had indeed found the exit.

Riker flexed his fingers and Bashir remembered the pain in his own. He opened his medkit and ran the dermal regenerator over his hands. There was nothing to clean them with, so he also loaded a hypospray with antibiotic after passing the regenerator to Riker.

"What about you, Danny?" Bashir asked. "Do your hands hurt?" He lifted one of the boy's hands and felt it for blood and injury. Riker handed back the equipment and started down the tunnel. Bashir felt nothing and tried the other hand, but the boy was impatient. He pulled loose and set off after Riker. Bashir packed his things quickly and followed, crawling through the increasingly muddy tunnel, around the corner toward light and air and freedom. But he wasn't thinking about those things. He was thinking about a ten-year-old survivor who wasn't and could climb rock like a mountain goat without so much as a scratch on his hands.

He lost those thoughts, too, though as he stood up beside Riker. "You hear that?"

"Vláďa again?" Riker asked in a whisper as he peered nervously back down the tunnel.

Bashir stepped past him into the sunlight and dust. "No," he said, "weapons fire."

* * *

Riker paused, just for a moment, trying to hear for himself. Bashir had a head injury. He admitted to hearing things. But then so had Riker, not that he could explain that one. And Bashir probably did have better hearing.

"Wait right here," he told the boy. He took the bag from Bashir's shoulder and dropped it on the ground. "Don't leave this cave until one of us comes for you." He waited for Bashir to ready his weapon and then motioned for the doctor to follow him out.

Once outside, he heard the fighting too. But he couldn't see anything. They were somewhere on a mountain and a ridge was between them and the source of the sound. "Tricorder," he ordered, but Bashir already had it out. While he scanned, he looked back over his shoulder toward the mouth of the cave. "What?"

Bashir shook his head. "I'm not sure." He turned his attention back to the tricorder. "It's not clear, but there are definitely more than three life signs. And most of them aren't human. Above us, to the west. We're close."

"Our guys?" Riker asked.

"Above them," Bashir answered.

"Good," Riker decided. "We can cut them off. I take it we're outnumbered." Bashir nodded. "Okay, let's go. We'll come back for the boy. Keep low and quiet, to the rocks. We'll surprise them."

Bashir looked once more over his shoulder, frowning, but he nodded and started over the ridge.

They hadn't gone more than forty meters before the cave and even that first ridge were obscured from sight. But the firing was louder, and now there were voices. Deep voices, focused, authoritative and unfearful. "Victory is life!"

Riker saw the Vorta first. She stood back, away from the firing, protected behind a barrier of rock. Protected from the three officers still firing from the cave's entrance, but not from Riker. Or rather, not from Bashir. Riker pointed to the Vorta and then to Bashir's weapon. He held up five fingers and waited for Bashir's solemn nod. He was impressed. Crusher might have protested such an order.

Riker dropped his hand and rushed forward, low and quiet. He'd be close before Bashir even fired. In his head, he counted. When he got to four the Vorta turned. She opened her mouth in surprise, but a bolt of light burned a hole into her chest before she could utter a command. Riker was past her before her body hit the ground.

At least one Jem'Hadar had heard though, and Riker diverted to the Vorta's position, stepping over her lifeless corpse. The Jem'Hadar saw nothing when he turned. Confused he turned back to the fight and Riker fired.

Now they all knew he was back there. But there were two less to worry about now. Riker spotted two more bodies even as three very alive Jem'Hadar rushed him. He estimated five more still firing up the mountain.

Riker fired, dropping one of his attackers. The others, caring nothing for their fallen comrade, kept coming. He got one more shot off but the first of them had reached him, knocking off his aim. Still a second Jem'Hadar fell and Riker guessed it was Bashir who had fired. Quarters were too close after that. Riker couldn't even lift his phaser rifle, let alone fire it. The Jem'Hadar had tackled him, throwing him hard onto the ground. Riker thought he actually saw stars, but he ignored them and the dizziness. The Jem'Hadar had a knife--a Klingon dagger--to his throat. And Riker didn't want to die.

Riker caught the Jem'Hadar's arm with both of his, holding the knife at bay barely an inch from his throat. The Jem'Hadar was strong, and Riker grunted with the effort to keep the blade from digging into his flesh. The Jem'Hadar, though, only needed one arm to counter Riker's two, and he used the other to pound Riker in the stomach.

The blow, not completely unexpected, was jarring, enough that Riker involuntarily lost his grip along with his breath. But it also caused him to curl inward, and he used the movement to twist sideways. The dagger caught him in the shoulder, and the Jem'Hadar made sure he buried the jagged blade all the way to the hilt.

The pain was blinding, a brilliant, fiery white behind his eyes. He couldn't see, he could only feel: the pain in his shoulder, the weight of the Jem'Hadar over him, the bony fist that pounded into his face.

Riker tried to reach his phaser rifle somewhere at his side, but he still couldn't see it. He only had one thing left. Well, two things really, but he needed the other for leverage. Reaching up with his good left arm, he grabbed what he expected was his assailant's uniform and yanked. The Jem'Hadar hadn't expected it and Riker pulled him off balance just enough that Riker could get a leg into the mix. Once he got his foot firmly planted in the Jem'Hadar's torso, he straightened his leg and sent the Dominion soldier flying. He didn't stay down long.

Ignoring the pain and forcing his eyes to work, Riker found his phaser and fired. And missed. The Jem'Hadar raised his own weapon, but someone else fired and he fell. It was only a leg wound though. Riker fired again to finish him off.

The immediate threat was gone, and Riker was left alone in the skirmish. Only a few Dominion soldiers remained, and the rest of the team had now come down to finish them off. Riker looked to his right and saw Bashir coming towards him, throwing his phaser to the ground in favor of his medkit.

"Stay still," Bashir ordered, pressing a hypospray to Riker's shoulder.

The pain immediately subsided to a more bearable level. Trying not to look at the knife, he turned his attention back to the skirmish. He counted four Jem'Hadar and only three Starfleet officers actively fighting against them. Compton was being double teamed. She fell, but used her legs to kick the knee of one of her attackers. She scrambled up while he clutched his leg.

Riker didn't see what happened after that. His shoulder erupted in pain again, and he turned his head to see the knife now in Bashir's hand. His other hand was now clamped down on Riker's shoulder. The pain slipped away again quickly, and Bashir prepared a bandage. But once the pain had lessened, Riker's attention was elsewhere: just over the crest of the ridge behind and to the right of Bashir's shoulder.

"Danny!" The boy's head could just be seen poking over the tops of the rock. And a Jem'Hadar had made his way to the edge of the ridge.

Bashir spun around without removing his hold on Riker's shoulder. The Jem'Hadar was climbing quickly over to where Danny was still standing passively. Riker tried to sit up, to reach for his weapon, but Bashir held him down and even grabbed his free arm.

"Hold this here," he ordered, placing Riker's left hand over the bandage. "Press down."

Riker didn't take his eyes from the boy, but he did what Bashir said, pressing hard enough that the pain stirred and his vision blurred. He saw Bashir, who had never turned back toward Riker, find the bloody knife with his hand. The Jem'Hadar had stopped in front of Danny, the top of whose head barely showed now. Then the Jem'Hadar dropped, choking out a cry of pain. Bashir still knelt there, staring at where Danny's hair disappeared behind the rocks. His hand, now empty was smeared with blood from the blade of the knife.

* * *

Riker thought he would run after the boy. He wanted him to. But he seemed frozen there, the color draining from his face.

Well, someone had to go. The Jem'Hadar could still be alive. He could have grabbed the boy. Riker again tried to sit up.

Bashir pushed him back down. "You'll be fine, Commander," he said, speaking louder than before. He leaned in close as he secured the bandage. "The Jem'Hadar wasn't hurting him," he whispered.

Riker wasn't sure if he was confused because of the way Bashir was acting or if it was a result of his injury. "That's because you killed him," he replied, also whispering. "You have to go after the boy. He's probably terrified."

"He was talking to him," Bashir said, and Riker wasn't sure which pronoun went to the boy and which to the Dominion soldier. "He wasn't hungry. He climbed that wall faster than me. He didn't hurt his hands, and he didn't listen when we told him to stay put."

Riker felt dizzy, but then, he had felt dizzy since he hit the ground. "So, maybe he's had practice with the wall. He was curious or afraid to be alone."

"He would have run," Bashir argued, finishing with the bandage, but still keeping his voice down.

"He did," Riker told him, pointing to where they'd last seen him.

"Only after I threw the knife."

Bashir touched the hyposray to Riker's neck and the dizziness began to subside. Suddenly the pieces started to come together. Bashir's evidence and his lack of color. "You think he's a changeling!"

Bashir raised his voice again. "That will have to do for now. You'll need surgery when we get back to the ship." He offered a hand and supported Riker's back as they stood.

"Why?" Riker asked, whispering. "It could have left any time."

"The same reason they killed all those people," Bashir replied, lowering his voice again. "They still want the dilithium."

"But it's useless," Riker reminded him. "The colonists made sure of it."

Bashir's eyes widened. "Say that louder," he said.

Riker knew why they were whispering, but he didn't get why Bashir now wanted to risk being overheard. "What?"

"I have an idea," Bashir whispered back. "Just play along." He raised his voice loud enough to be overheard. "We can't just leave, Commander. The Federation needs this dilithium."

Riker took a deep breath. What if they were wrong? What if they were right? Either way, they had to find the boy, to rescue him or to capture him. He raised his voice. "The dilithium is useless. The colonists made sure of that."

"It's useless _now_," Bashir argued, allowing a trace of arrogance into his voice. "They wouldn't have holed up in that cave if they meant for it to be permanent."

"So you're saying it's reversible?" Riker asked, knowing full well that it was. He wouldn't be arguing at all if Bashir hadn't asked him to play along. Still, finding the key to decontaminating the dilithium could take months, if not years, especially if the colony's whole population had been murdered like those in the cave. "Even so it's not for us. It will take months for our scientists to even figure out how to reverse it."

"Oh, please," Bashir said, rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands. "It's not _that_ hard. It's just chemistry."

Bashir was more animated now than he'd ever been on the ship or even in the cave. Which was good. Otherwise Riker wouldn't have had to fake his irritation at Bashir's tone. Riker was sure, too, that Bashir's next words would be to boast about his genetic superiority, something he hadn't actually done in Riker's presence yet.

Bashir didn't get the chance, because Danny's little boy head popped up over the rocks again, wide-eyed and pale. His timing was suspicious, but otherwise he looked very much like what he presented himself to be as Bashir gently scolded him for not staying where he was told. If he was a changeling, he seemed not to be aware that he'd been found out.

Riker looked around and noted the skirmish was over. Grierre and Compton were helping Enyar off the ground. There were no more Jem'Hadar. The skirmish was won, with relatively few injuries to the away team. The ache in his shoulder reminded him that he was one of the injured.

"Try not to move that much," Bashir reminded him.

Riker ignored him. He had bigger things to worry about than a shoulder. Others in his team were bleeding, too, but Bashir didn't even look at them. He was watching the boy. Bashir had other things to worry about, too. One way or another, they had to know. Here:

* * *

"What's the problem, Mr. La Forge?"

"Nothing, sir," Geordi replied, still trying to filter out the distress signal which was interfering with their signal. "The probe is working perfectly, but the distress signal has become garbled. It changes frequency every one point five seconds. We have to recalibrate our own transmitter to match."

"Geordi," Data interrupted, "it is a pattern."

Geordi appreciated Data's help, but between him, the captain, and the transmitter, Geordi was getting frustrated. "I got that Data. But why did it change?"

Data did appear to pick up on the frustration. "Because someone changed it," he replied.

He pressed a few controls and the distress signal began to play, but at only half its normal speed. Now the pattern was more than clear. And the message wasn't garbled. It was just missing pieces. A full second of every three at current speed. But the missing part wasn't filled with silence. Instead it was short pulses of Morse code.

Suddenly, all that frustration was gone. "Captain," Geordi reported, "I think the away team just contacted us."

* * *

They stood in a circle around the boy, and Riker made introductions to the rest of the team. Bashir was sure it was only an excuse to surround the boy. What Riker said next confirmed it.

"Phasers at the ready," Riker ordered casually. "There could be more of them out there." He was absently turning the dagger, the one he'd retrieved from the fallen Jem'Hadar, over and over in his hands. "Setting three should be fine for now."

Bashir was tired, drained in fact, but his pulse refused to slow. It made him dizzy. Or maybe the concussion did. Either way, he knew Danny was the solution to it. If Danny was just a boy, then they could leave this moon with its one survivor. If not . . . well, that was something he didn't want to contemplate.

"We were all alone at one point or another," Riker went on, "whether in the cave or in the fighting. As a precaution, I want everyone to be tested. Doctor, would you please draw blood from everyone?"

Bashir heard him, but didn't--couldn't--take his eyes off the boy. He answered. "They've gotten past blood tests before."

Riker looked at him, turned his head. Bashir caught that in the corner of his vision. "One used a whole arm from the person it replaced," Bashir added to illustrate. Just the mention of it gave him a chill. Not the arm so much as that changeling. An image flashed through his mind. A vial of black powder poured into his hand. Her ashes. It was one of the ways he coped, reminding himself that Kira had killed her, that she was no longer a threat. She could only torment him with memories now.

Riker took a breath and then spoke again. "Okay, so we try something different. Something one wouldn't be able to prepare for. A lock of hair."

"You could have prepared for it," Enyar pointed out, "since you suggested it."

Riker gave him a sideways smile. "Okay, so you can suggest something different for me."

Danny turned to look at one and then the other as they spoke, but he showed no expression. He just watched. And Bashir watched him.

"Fingernails?" Grierre suggested with a shrug before Enyar had come up with anything.

"As long as it can be separated from the body," Bashir confirmed.

"Why don't we all just spit?" Compton asked.

_Novel_, Bashir thought. _Why hadn't anyone thought of that before?_

Riker smirked. "Maybe next time." For now, he took the knife and sliced a bit of his left thumbnail off, which he then handed to Grierre.

Grierre held it in the palm of his hand and waited about thirty seconds. When it didn't change, he dropped it to the ground. .

"Next," Riker ordered, handing the knife to Grierre, the closest one clockwise. .

Grierre cut a small lock of hair from near his right ear. He handed the lock to Riker, the knife to Compton. She frowned a bit at the state of the weapon, which had only been wiped off, not cleaned. After a suitable wait--for the lock of hair to change in Riker's hand--Compton repeated the gesture. Hair to the right, knife to the left. Bashir would be the last, with the exception of the boy. Danny watched each one, turning in a circle as Compton, then Enyar, cut a lock of hair.

Finally, the knife was given to Bashir. His own hair was short, given his recent haircut, but he pinched a bit between his fingers and put the knife close to his skin. His eyes never left the boy, and the boy met his gaze. Enyar dropped Bashir's hair which hadn't changed, and it flew away with the dust in the air.

"Keep the knife," Riker ordered. And Bashir finally turned away from the boy to look at Riker. He didn't want to be the one to be that close to a Founder, provided of course, Danny was one.

Riker leaned down to Danny's level. "We have to check you, too," he told the boy. "Don't worry. He's a doctor. He won't hurt you."

Bashir began to lower himself to one knee, hands outstretched. He'd do it quickly. Take a lock and then stand back up again to wait for the change.

Danny didn't give him the chance. Danny melted away in a flash of golden liquid, falling back into the little boy's clothes and bursting out again in a thick stream that hit Grierre right in the chest. Everyone was surprised and Bashir jerked back instinctively, moving his hand back to his phaser even before the stream had completely left Grierre. It was so quick, Grierre hadn't had time to fall before the changeling had reformed into some sort of snake. Grierre had a look of disbelief on his face. Others fired behind him, and the changeling squealed.

Bashir had forgotten the shapeshifter. He ran forward as Grierre fell, collapsing first at the knees, arms outstretched. He hit the ground, gasping for breath, only a moment before Bashir reached him. It was more than a sucking chest wound. Bashir could see through the twelve-centimeter hole in Grierre's chest to the barren soil below. With one hand, Bashir cradled him; the other searched in his medical bag. Grierre struggled, trying to breathe and looking to Bashir for help, for hope. But there was nothing Bashir could do. He could heal a laceration, knit a broken bone, but he couldn't put this back together, not in the time it would take Grierre to either bleed to death or die of asphyxiation.

Bashir placed a vile into the hypospray from his bag, still using only one hand. For the pain. It was all he could do. He placed the hypospray to the lieutenant's neck but it did little to console the man. Grierre was still trying to breathe, to live. He grasped Bashir's arms with panicked fingers and sucked in breath that had nowhere to go. Bashir just held him until, finally, the struggling stopped, the fingers loosened, and Grierre was dead.

This was the last thing Bashir wanted. They'd already lost one of the team. He'd seen enough corpses for one day. For a month. For a lifetime. Compton knelt down beside him, and Bashir realized the firing had stopped. He looked up, past Grierre's frozen expression of shock, to where a blotch of black dust was slowly being swept away by the moon's wind. The changeling was dead, too. Bashir closed Grierre's eyes and moved out from under him, laying him gently on the ground.

It was Riker who touched his shoulder. "The _Enterprise_ just contacted us," he said, speaking quietly, so as not to disturb the moment too much. But the moment was nothing but disturbing to Bashir. He stood and turned away from the body and found instead the clothes the changeling had left behind. He could just see the tag in the back of the jacket. There had been a real Danny once. He was probably back in the cave with the other children. Bashir could see them still, stacked against the wall.

He turned away again. "When do we leave?"

* * *

They'd had to wait another hour for the _Enterprise_'s engineers to filter out the interference. The transport finally came just as the sun was beginning to set. Bashir noted the glorious red-gold color of the sky, a product of the pollution brought on by the colonists.

His head ached considerably, but his mind was clearer now, more under control. Troi was too distracted by the emotions of the others though to pay him much notice. Bashir heard about it in Sickbay. Riker's wasn't the only group to take on casualties in skirmishes with lingering Jem'Hadar. The other away team members talked of seeing bodies, of the smell. All of the colonists were dead. Bashir was not surprised.

Bashir was given the next day off, to recover from his concussion, and he'd welcomed the return to his clean, quiet quarters on the _Enterprise_. Troi had come by, though. She wanted to talk about what he'd experienced in the cave. He told her he didn't remember much about it, using the concussion as an excuse. He didn't want to talk about the cave, or even Danny. He didn't want to think about them, because, if he did, he would feel. He'd feel the disgust and the sadness, the anguish and the hopelessness again, and Troi might have changed her mind about DS Nine and even his return to duty.

He could tell she was frustrated when she left, but he couldn't let that concern him any more than Riker's inferiority complex. He would soon return to Deep Space Nine and thereafter be Ezri's problem.

Two days later, the dilithium contamination mystery was solved. Surprisingly, it was Patrick who cracked it, which had sent Jack into a jealous huff. All of which was described, with characteristic melodramatic air, by Lauren in a letter to Bashir. She did manage to squeeze in two sentences welcoming him back from the dead.

The scant sensor data and Bashir's tricorder readings had been sent to the Institute in the hope that the trio of "mutants" would be able to solve the chemical equation faster than Starfleet's own scientists. They'd been right, and as far as Bashir was concerned, it was the only good thing to come of Carello Naru.

But he didn't want to think about that anymore. He only wanted to think of Deep Space Nine. Home. In just two more hours. If he closed his eyes, he could see every detail of his quarters, just as he had left them the last time Sloan had taken him away. Kukalaka sat on the corner table in the living room. Three PADDs were left on the coffee table. His breakfast was still in the replicator. Sloan hadn't given him time to eat it. Typical.

Outside his quarters was the long, curved corridor. Beyond that, a turbolift to the Promenade. And there, crowds of people, some shopping, others working, and still others just taking a break from the war. There was Quark's, fairly loud even in the morning. Morn would wave hello from his barstool. Quark wouldn't bother, unless he wanted something.

Garak's shop was farther down, on the outside curve of the Promenade. The intrepid Cardassian would be working behind his desk, either designing or sewing or decoding Dominion/Cardassian transmissions. Or maybe he'd have a customer. He'd nod or wave to let Julian know he'd be delayed a bit. Bashir could wait, most days. And in a few minutes, the customer would be satisfied, and Garak would be free for lunch at the Replimat.

The Replimat was a lively place at lunch time, and sometimes he and Garak would have to wait in line to get a table. They'd pass the time talking about literature or politics but never about the war. It was a rule they'd made a few weeks before. Lunch was time-off from the war.

After lunch, he might check in at Ops, visit with O'Brien or Kira before returning to the Infirmary. His Infirmary. Sickbay on the _Enterprise_ was like Sickbay on the _Defiant_, only bigger, and that was pretty close to being like every Sickbay on every Starfleet vessel or installation in the Federation. But the Infirmary was unique, a blending of Federation medical technology and Cardassian design, or vice versa. It had character, a mysterious or adventurous look to it. But Bashir found it comforting. He felt at home there more than any place he'd ever been.

The two hours flew by. The ship-wide announcement that they were about to dock broke into his thoughts and shattered the tranquility he felt. It was time to go home.

* * *

The _Enterprise_ would be docking late in the evening, and since everyone was planning to be together anyway, Sisko had invited the senior staff and a few other guests over for dinner. Jake, having gotten the sense that his father was preoccupied, had volunteered to do the cooking. The captain didn't mind. He was preoccupied.

But this wasn't just a social occasion. This was a briefing, for tonight, the dead--in a sense--came back to life.

Sisko himself was doing a particularly good job of blending in with the furniture. Ezri had taken the lead, and the captain was more than willing to let her keep it.

"With the exception of his time on the _Enterprise_," Ezri was saying, "Julian has spent most of the last six months in complete isolation. While he's sure to have recovered from any physical effects of that isolation, it hasn't been quite two weeks since he was rescued. He will likely still have emotional and psychological issues when he returns. We need to be aware of that and be sensative to what he's feeling."

"If he is unfit," Worf spoke up, though not as loudly as he might have, "he should not be allowed to practice medicine."

Sisko rankled at his tone, but he couldn't speak up, not just because it would bring his presence back to the awareness of the others, but because of what he'd seen in Bashir.

Kira was the first to defend Bashir. "He's _been_ practicing medicine. Their Chief Medical Officer has nothing but praise for his ability, knowledge, compassion. It took forty minutes to read her report. I never knew Julian had so many wonderful attributes."

Sisko thought again that maybe he'd been wrong not to say anything after his talk with Julian, but what could he have said without telling why Bashir had been so upset? Besides he'd had nearly two weeks on the _Enterprise_ with a counselor who was also an empath.

"That's just it," Dax said. "That's in Sickbay. That's when he's being a doctor, working as a doctor. Counselor Troi says it's like a light switch. He's fine when he's working. He's outgoing and charming and everything else we know him to be. But when he's out of that setting, he's subdued and withdrawn. He keeps to himself and rarely spends time with more than one person."

Sisko could believe that, having heard the other's reports. Bashir had been anything but emotionless when he'd confronted Sisko. Two sides of the same person.

"He has friends here," Ezri continued. "And when the _Enterprise_ docks tonight, they're--we're--all going to want to see him, to tell him that we missed him, maybe even just touch him so we know he's real. That may not be what he wants. He may not be comfortable with that."

"Like me," Nog spoke up. Jake had invited him, and Sisko hadn't seen anything wrong with it. Besides, he did have a unique point of view, as he was reminding everyone. "You--all of you--meant well, coming to welcome me back after I lost my leg. I can realize that now, but it wasn't what I wanted then."

"Or even what you needed," Dax affirmed. "And that may be the case with Julian."

Sisko could imagine a scene like that with Bashir, except, instead of subdued and dour like Nog, the doctor would be anxious and wary, something like a small animal cornered by a pack of wolves.

"Are you saying we should all go home after dinner?" asked O'Brien, a bit roughly.

Ezri was quick to reassure him. "No, I think we should be there. I think we should plan for the best, but not expect it. We should take our cue from him, keep things low key until we know he's okay with more."

Sisko had been half hoping that would be the case. It would give Bashir a chance to get settled and give the rest of them time to assess his state of mind. He'd realized a lot that night. For the first time Sisko had sensed how dangerous Bashir could be. And yet, he'd also understood that the only thing holding Julian back was Julian. It wasn't Sisko's rank that kept him from attacking, nor the fear of punishment. It was the man Julian was, the compassionate one Ezri had talked about. He was still in there somewhere.

* * *

There was a small crowd waiting by the airlock. During war, any time a ship put in at a starbase was an exciting relief for her crew. The others were too busy talking among themselves to even notice him. He hung back, just around a corner, watching them smile and listening to their laughter. There was an energy in the corridor and it pricked at the sleeves of his uniform.

He backed away, clutching his one small bag. It would be like that on the other side, too. It wouldn't just go away when the _Enterprise_ crewmembers dissolved into the crowds of the Promenade. It would stay and follow him, because the _Enterprise_ crewmembers were just waiting for the airlock door to open. On the other side, they were waiting for him.

It wasn't for any rational reason that he got into the turbolift. He didn't even plan to call out the deck that he did, even though he knew what he would find there. A smaller service airlock.

He was surprised, though, by who he found there.

"The personnel airlock is up a few decks," Riker stated as he leaned back against the airlock controls.

Bashir stopped at the door, still unsure of his own reasoning in coming. He couldn't find a reply for Riker.

"But I suppose you knew that," Riker went on. He didn't seem angry, and Bashir didn'tsee anyone else in the room. "They're probably waiting for you up there. But I suppose you knew that, too."

Bashir just nodded, still unsure of his own response and Riker's reason for being there.

Riker stepped toward him. "I thought you wanted to go home," he said, dipping his eyebrows down in confusion.

Finally, Bashir felt he could answer. "I do. I can get home this way."

Riker took a moment before speaking again and nodded. "You could. But all your friends are waiting the other way."

Bashir bit his lip and turned away. He didn't have the answers. "There's a crowd . . . ," he began.

"You know," Riker said, saving him from having to continue, "I have a brother. My twin in a sense."

Bashir could tell a story was forthcoming. That was easier to deal with, so he played along. "In what sense?"

"Well, he's me." Riker found a couple of crates and sat down on one. "Transporter accident. It created a double of me. Problem is we didn't know it. So he, the other me, was marooned on a crashed ship for seven years before we discovered him. In the end, we worked it out that we could be brothers. I'd be Will Riker and he'd go by Tom, our middle name."

"Oh, him," Bashir interjected. "He was on the station. He hijacked the _Defiant_."

"And last I heard," Riker said, nodding sadly, "the Cardassian's had him. But that's a different story for another evening. This is about his rescue."

"Because he was like me," Bashir realized. "Because he was marooned."

Riker nodded again. "Not exactly like you. He was marooned by accident. He didn't give up hope of rescue. Not for seven years. It kept him going, kept him sane.

"He dreamt of rescue, of going home, of seeing Dad again, of getting his career back on track, of holding . . . well, the woman I had loved back then. In short, he dreamed about getting his life back."

Now Bashir could see where Riker was going with this. His pulse sped up a bit in his chest. Still he couldn't interrupt. He found himself hoping for a happy ending even though he already knew the epilogue.

"He _was_ rescued," Riker went on. "He did get back into Starfleet. He did see Dad. And, for awhile, he even got the woman. But he couldn't get his life back. He couldn't just pick up where he left off. I had his career. And the woman, she had her own. She'd grown and changed. And, even though he didn't realize it, so had he. The puzzle had changed and he didn't quite fit anymore."

Now his heart was pounding. "Are you saying I shouldn't go back?"

Riker stood again and came toward him. "No, I said you weren't exactly alike. You were only gone six months, for one thing. And there's not another Julian Bashir running around the station. There's still a place for you. I just. . . .

"Look," he began again, "you've been dreaming about going home for the last six months, or at least the last couple of weeks. You want to pick everything up right where you left off. But life doesn't work that way. It's going to disappoint you no matter how much you try and hide from it. In fact, the more you hide the more you lose."

Rationally, Bashir knew Riker was right. But he didn't feel rational. He felt violated, a victim of theft. His life, those last six months had been stolen from him, and now Riker was saying there was no justice, nothing to make up for what he had lost. It wasn't fair.

When he didn't say anything, Riker put a hand on his shoulder. "So make the most of it. Take it as it is and claim it as yours. It's still your life. And it's waiting for you with open arms." The hand on Bashir's shoulder turned him away from the service airlock and toward the corridor. "Up on Deck Ten."

Bashir still felt uneasy about going back to the main airlock, but he had no argument to make to Riker, no reason not to go with him when the commander walked him back to the turbolift. Riker's words had stung. They were words he hadn't wanted to hear even though he could hear himself saying them to someone else. He had said almost the same thing to Crewman Bejlis about the loss of her arm.

Riker took his bag walked him to the airlock as well, and Bashir was surprised to find most of the senior staff their waiting for him. Geordi and Data stood on one side of the corridor.

Geordi smiled and offered a hand. "You know you could stay if you wanted."

Bashir didn't want to stay. He wanted what Riker told him he couldn't have. "I'll keep that in mind."

He offered Data his hand. Data had gotten him out of the cave, and Data had saved him from the court martial. Bashir regretted not having more time to spend with him. "Thank you, Commander. For everthing."

"That is what friends are for," Data replied, shaking his hand.

Troi and Crusher waited on the other side. Troi was watching him closely. Too closely. He hadn't been careful enough. She probably felt his uneasiness.

"It was an honor working with you, Doctor," Crusher said. "Don't let them work you too hard too soon. Take some time for yourself."

"I had six months to myself," Bashir replied, "but I doubt I'll be thrown right into the thick of things anyway."

Troi offered her hand as well. "I've spoken to Counselor Dax. You'll be seeing her once a day at first. Maybe you'll open up more once you're home."

So she had known all along that he was holding her back. _It doesn't matter_, he told himself. She was letting him go, and that was all he wanted from her. "I'll try," he told. "Please thank Captain Picard for me."

"I will," Troi replied. "You're nervous."

Bashir could already see the edge of a sizeable crowd on the other side. "It's a lot of people," he admitted to her. Riker had hit closer to the mark. Maybe she wouldn't push any farther. At this point, he just wanted to get it over with.

"They're your friends," she reminded him. "You'll be fine."

Bashir just nodded and took his bag back from Riker. He took a long, slow breath as he stepped past them into the airlock. The great wheel on the station side was still rolled back. On the other side was home.

THE END  
Continued in Faith, Part II, Forgiveness also on .

**copyright 2000 Gabrielle Lawson**


End file.
